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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24645700">On Lorenz Theory and Love</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelanijaParadis/pseuds/MelanijaParadis'>MelanijaParadis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Stelliform Chronicles [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Charmed (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate History, Alternate Origin Story, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops &amp; Cafés, Alternate Universe - Paris, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathtub Sex, Drama &amp; Romance, Engagement, F/M, First Dates, Fluff and Smut, Greece, Islands, Magical Pregnancy, Manchester City, Memory Alteration, Memory Magic, Origin Story, Other, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Prom, Pseudo-History, Romance, Seattle, Sex, Shower Sex, Slow Build, Slow Romance, Smut, Social Justice, Social Media, Song Lyrics, Summer Vacation, Tragedy, Travel, Vacation, Wedding Planning, Weddings, World Travel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:35:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>56,712</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24645700</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelanijaParadis/pseuds/MelanijaParadis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Maggie has a premonition when Harry asks her to numb his ever-growing feelings for Macy. Macy finds out, and goes to Paris to reassess her feelings, later retreating to her family home in the Azores Islands. Macy and Harry's sensual reuniting in the Azores leads to Macy discovering her 1680s ancestral story, and describes her 3 great-aunts, the Valensi sisters. One of the Valensi sisters is free-spirited Darcy, who, in 1940, flees an Azorian soothsayer's prophecy of death, to pursue her dreams of being a jazz singer in England. Before Harry &amp; Macy ("Hacy"), there was Jimmy &amp; Darcy ("Marcy"), of Tessera Nightclub--how Harry became a whitelighter. In the present, Harry and Macy confront Celeste in Mykonos; after, Harry takes Macy on a date. Mel merges Harry/Jimmy with unexpected results; Harry and Macy rediscover each other in the Azores, then take their relationship to a new level in the JHMD series (i.e. SafeSpace Prom, a proposal, and Macy takes a pregnancy test). Overall, these stories interpret those instances of reading between the lines--those immutable moments of magic. (*Note: Matias, Morgana, Dora, Della, Darcy, Denis, Terezinha, and Maya are all characters I created from my imagination)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Greenwood/Macy Vaughn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Stelliform Chronicles [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813234</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Take My Feelings Away</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>1 Take My Feelings Away</p><p>Harry stared into the flickering amber glow of the stately Victorian-style Vera Manor fireplace. He repeated his request to doe-eyed Maggie—whose initially surprised expression transformed into disturbed confusion.</p><p><em>“Please,” </em>he begged aloud. “I nearly caused the demise of our Command Center and the integrity of the Charmed Ones, the very foundations of the magical universe, even. This <em>cannot</em> go on—I must shield my emotions in order to carry on my duties. I’ve been neglecting my duties—derelict, even, if I dare say so myself.”</p><p>Maggie continued to stare into the firelight, unblinking, as she ruminated on what exactly she should say, to the man she knew, deep down, was the second best thing that had ever happened to Macy (the first being Macy’s discovery of herself and Mel, of course). She counted to twenty, slowly and methodically, before beginning to speak.</p><p>“Harry, before we went into hiding, I took a psychology class on the butterfly effect. Tl;dr: one small thing can unleash crazy change, war, whatever. And didn’t you tell us that magical interference can have unforeseen consequences?” Maggie raised an arched eyebrow, not unsympathetic. “Considering Macy’s and your origins and your capabilities and the chemistry you two have, that’s like hiding a freaking nebula that spawns only once every 12 million years—for the sun, I mean.”</p><p>Harry gave a wry chuckle. “I see you’ve been reviewing your astronomy.” He gave a long sigh and stared at the pillared fireplace sconces in front of him, their shadows flickering almost as if they were in a spritely dance. He considered himself a cultured, sensible man, and though open to learning from anyone and everyone, had never once thought until now that he would be seeking the relationship advice of a lady seven-plus decades his junior. <em>There’s certainly a first time for everything, </em>he mused to himself.</p><p>“Macy’s been lied to her entire life, Harry. She lost decades with the mom Mel and I had, and she’s suffered more heartbreak than anyone ever should. Numbing one’s feelings—numbing <em>yours</em>,” she lifted her chin, referring to him, “would cause her even more pain. Doesn’t that violate your whitelighter rules? Or something?” Maggie sought to appeal to his unconventional career-driven side. “And to be an effective whitelighter—or self-actualized person or whatever—you can’t choose being safe over personal growth. Maya Mendoza once said “No amount of security is worth the suffering of a mediocre life chained to a routine that has killed your dreams.”</p><p>Harry nodded introspectively. “Maggie Vera, you have most certainly given me food for thought.”</p><p>“And,” Maggie remarked offhandedly, “numbing your emotions wouldn’t work anyways.”</p><p>“Why not?” Harry inquired.</p><p>“Emotional transference transfers the emotions <em>I </em>feel. And dammit Harry, you are the best whitelighter we’ve ever had, you’re basically our British Prince Harry older brother, and you two have the most *erm* glass-shattering chemistry. Nice try dude, but you need a better excuse than that.” Maggie smirked a bit. “Also, try not to break our mirror next time—that was a vintage store Marisol find. We Veras like our mirrors large and whole.”</p><p>Harry blushed a deep rouge and was about to depart, but Maggie suddenly jolted in her tell-tale premonition stance.</p><p>
  <em>Premonition</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Maggie was in the Vera Manor garden, it was a lovely summertime afternoon, and the glass tealights were sparkling in the shimmering sunlight. She realized she was holding the hand of a little girl, whose tiny, caramel-colored corkscrew curls encircled her visage like a miniature halo. She took a closer look at this toddler child, who was dressed to the nines in an English blue floral cotton dress, wearing a matching printed bow that had somehow slipped further down in her hair. Maggie heard peals of laughter, and followed the voices to a fancy table, where she saw what appeared to be gaily-wrapped birthday presents, a large “1<sup>st</sup> birthday” banner, and the familiar faces of Ray, Mel, and a positively glowing Harry and Macy.</em>
</p><p>Maggie exhaled sharply, finally opening her eyes.</p><p>“What is it?” Harry asked, curiously.</p><p>“N-nothing.”<em></em><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Coven Coffee, Paris</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>2 Coven Coffee, Paris</p><p>All Charmed characters are Charmed CW’s. I read about Coven Coffee in Paris and decided to incorporate a bit of real-world in this story.</p><p>
  <em>10 PM PST, 6 am GMT, 8 am France</em>
</p><p>Music: Matthew Dear “Bad Ones” (feat. Tegan and Sara)</p><p>Macy, unable to sleep, donned a navy dress, a khaki trenchcoat, and sensible ballet flats and ventured to the Command Center, to be of some use there. Upon entering, the map sensor showed Paris, France as a source of activity. Having clicked, obtained the telltale marble, and landed, she quickly vanquished a screeching, cursing 300-year-old La Madame Blanche (French female ghost) in the Cité Internationale Universitaire de Paris (CIUP) girl’s wing of the stately Sorbonne University and had plenty of time to spare.</p><p><em>Enough time to breathe</em>. Enough time to seek a modicum of something resembling normalcy and think about the conversation she inadvertently overheard in her dream; she’d heard something about Harry numbing his feelings toward her, and she had lived long enough to know that these dreams were steeped in magic reality, for better or for worse.</p><p>She consulted her iPhone and muttered coffee, hoping that Siri (<em>French: Mademoiselle Siri?</em>) would steer her in the right direction. Turning two corners past the Seine River, and a swerve past the Quai du Louvre street post, she made another right near a marble statue of St. Genevieve and came face-to-face with Coven Coffee.</p><p>Macy, too immersed in her own thoughts to question anything, pushed the shop door open, as the overhead chime rang, and she heard the beginning lyrics of Tegan and Sara’s “Bad Ones.” She found a brochure, which explained the coffee shop’s intersectional, ethically-minded, feminist bookselling principles. According to the writing, “<em>Intersectionality points out the various systems of power that affect those who are the most marginalized or discriminated against in society. … if they are the only people at the table then you should be suspicious. Our books will cover gender, race, class, ableism and sexuality - and include children’s and teen’s titles</em>.” Not to mention, Coven Coffee specialized in English-language literature in particular. Macy nodded in silent approval. <em>This </em>was her kind of place.</p><p>Having ordered a Noisette (French espresso with a dash of cream), she chose her seat toward the back of the coffee shop. She took her tiny 1x2 inch nondescript notepad from her trench coat pocket (and tiny ballpoint pen) and began to make a list about Harry.</p><p>Harry: Pros | Harry: Cons</p><p>She bit her lip and continued.</p><p><em>Pros</em>: handsome, (very, <em>very</em>) sexy, the perfect British gentleman, makes the best Earl Grey tea, great at <strike>kissing</strike> <strike>sex</strike> <strike>lovemaking</strike> <strike>humping along an armoire</strike> <strike>making her toes curl</strike> physical intimacy overall, slow-dancing, kind, gentle, excellent whitelighter abilities…an attractive human specimen generally, with a certain air of innocence (and impromptu elegance, she supposed, after their dance)</p><p><em>Cons</em>: hates his feelings, is post-octogenarian yet needs to grow up a bit (<em>typical man</em>), too scared of <strike>true love</strike> whatever the hell this is</p><p>Macy checked her watch. It was almost midnight in Seattle. She sighed. She had to leave Coven soon. She remembered (<em>was it really a morning or two ago?) </em>how she had woken up in her bedroom, her pillows and sheets askew unlike anything before, and tracing the back of her sleeping paramour gently with her finger, in the shape of infinity. Multiple infinities, in fact.</p><p>She’d arisen from bed just then, to move closer to the mirror to see her reflection—<em>how much of a hot mess was her hair after last night? </em>Only to whirl around and find Harry staring at her shapely silhouette from the bed, then him rapidly orbing to recreate the night before, inches from her—his eyes meeting hers, his surprisingly muscular arm intertwined with her sinewy limb, a stroke of her tight curls and his breath on her swan-like neck and an involuntary moan from her, his hand slapping her bosom then reaching for her nipple, his exploratory tongue meeting her wanting tongue, everything aligned just <em>so</em> (<em>her toes involuntarily curled at the vivid memory), </em>which of course was interrupted unceremoniously by well-intentioned Mel and Maggie. Somehow, Macy had the sense orbing wasn’t intended by the Elders for sexy whitelighter purposes, but she certainly wasn’t complaining…she smiled slightly to herself.</p><p>Macy rose from her seat, disposed of her empty (and 100% biodegradable) coffee cup, departed Coven, blinking into the bright-yet silvery gray skies ubiquitous of a Parisian morning, and retraced her route past the marble St. Genevieve, the Quai du Louvre street post, and the Seine. Ducking into a dark side alley, she retrieved her marble and portaled back into the darkened Command Center.</p><p>She leapt back into the familiar switchboard room; the map flashed overhead, with its telltale blips and chimes of magical activity. Lonely as most anyone might be at such fantastical wanderings, Macy had been raised an only child and found bliss in occasional moments of solitude such as these. She followed her path back to Vera Manor, and opened the front door quietly, much like her younger wild child self (box braids and all) sneaking home after a long night out at clubs (much to her father’s chagrin).</p><p>The entire living room area was pitch black—it looked as if the fire had gone out, and no one was awake. Or so she thought. On a whim, she decided to walk to the kitchen to check on her ivy plants and nearly leapt out of her skin.</p><p>“Where were you?” Harry exclaimed. “It’s nearly midnight, and your sisters and I have been waiting for hours.”</p><p>“Out,” said Macy archly, “pour engourdir mes sentiments avec du café. Or en anglais, “numb my feelings.””</p><p>Harry suddenly looked uncomfortable as Macy turned and hurried upstairs without another word.</p><p>“What is it?” Maggie asked sleepily, having woken up from napping on the sofa.</p><p>“I think she heard us.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. She-Shed and Sauvignon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>3 She-Shed &amp; Sauvignon</p><p>
  <em>10 am, Vera Manor Garden, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Macy, after returning from her nightly adventure and getting somewhat adequate sleep, decided it was high time she created a she-shed from the garden shed sitting in the Vera Manor back garden.</p><p><em>To numb her feelings, and all</em>, she thought to herself. That way, she could have a feminist, girly, soothing, Harry-free space to breathe and think and do all manner of things (which, if she was honest with herself, likely involved fantasizing about every single sensitive body part of the aforementioned whitelighter, and/or reading dirty Reddit threads or the like). Perhaps it involved hatha yoga and wine tasting—she hadn’t decided for sure yet. Could it, months from now, double as a Command Center? Or if not, a Command Post? These thoughts swirled around in Macy’s mind.</p><p>She had recently found a way to clone Vivienne’s genetic analysis machine and currently kept it stashed away in the shed, and she secreted a few pillows and a fluffy white rug from her own bedroom to cozy up the place. To be honest, there wasn’t really anything inside it to begin with—it was, when she had come upon it awhile ago, as if it was a blank, <em>tabula rasa </em>slate meant for Macy’s sole, exclusive design. There was, when you entered the shed, a sense that the inside was far larger than the outside revealed. There was a simple-but-solid wood desk and chair, Macy’s pillows, and the machine that whirred softly each time samples were to be placed within, <em>much like a sewing machine of decades past</em>, Macy mused to herself. Macy purposefully chose not to clean the dark-tinted and possibly rusted-over shed windows and window fixtures, believing that she really did need a bit of privacy, having two sisters and a man who could orb wherever he damn well pleased.</p><p>Macy knew that Mel, Maggie, and Harry were away in Puerto Rico wrestling a hybrid as-yet-undetermined feline Chupacabra off of an elderly witch’s face, so there was no hurry at all; she had stayed behind to do a DNA analysis of said Chupacabra in the Command Center, but as soon as the trio were gone, she returned to her she-shed and performed the DNA analysis there instead, in the warm and comfort of the verdant garden atmosphere. With a <em>beep, </em>45 minutes later, the genetic sequencing was complete; the hybrid matched the DNA profile of the <em>F. silvestris lybica</em> species—the African wildcat. And given that the fur had been white, according to Mel’s frenetic texts, likely albino. Macy texted the sequencing results via group chat to Mel, Maggie, and Harry, and added “Chuc likes goats.”</p><p>
  <em>1 pm, Jordan’s gym, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Harry waved to Jordan through the gym’s doors, pretending to be casual in his slate-colored slacks and cerulean suit shirt—and failing miserably. Jordan, who had been in the middle of teaching introductory self-defense to a pair of middle-aged women, excused himself and strode toward Harry, who was waiting just outside.</p><p>“’Sup man, how’s life?” Jordan briefly shook Harry’s hand.</p><p>“I need your advice,” Harry muttered.</p><p>“That bad, huh?” Jordan ushered him toward the stairs and they proceeded down to the café, where each ordered a hot drink.</p><p>Once they were seated, Harry remarked, somewhat half-heartedly, “I have no blasted idea what I’m doing—and I don’t want to get close to her in case I hurt her.”</p><p>Always zen-like, Jordan stated, “Love don’t come easy—Phil Collins—couldn’t resist,” looking at Harry’s expression. “C’mon, did anyone ever in the history of mankind ever <em>really </em>know what they were doing? Half the time we make things up as we go along—and do the best we can with who we love, whether we have five years, ten, or twenty-five”—as he gave Harry a pointed look, “years.”</p><p>“True,” Harry nodded in agreement. “But what if, in your quest to protect someone, to avoid hurting that one, you hurt her instead, without meaning to?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t overthink this,” responded Jordan. “If you’ve done her wrong, man up and apologize. If you love her, go to her side and woo the hell outta her. If you’re worried about hurting her—women are stronger than we give them credit. It’s not complicated, man.”</p><p>Harry sighed. “But is it too late?”</p><p>“Only if you think it is,” Jordan said. “And recalling that time pre-morgue when you made me temporarily dead—there’s always a balance, a sweet spot, remember?”</p><p>Harry sipped his Earl Grey tea and mused over his thoughts a bit more. “But how on earth do I woo her?”</p><p>“Dude, that’s entirely up to you,” Jordan slyly grinned. “Gotta go, my students are waiting.”</p><p>
  <em>8-10 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Harry was in the wine cellar, trying to pick out a vintage number that would “woo the hell outta” Macy. He had no idea where to start, but he did remember her at dinner nearly a fortnight ago, remarking that there was a chocolate wine that sounded particularly intriguing, comprised of a French cabernet sauvignon, Holland cream, cacao, and maybe the addition of bitters and cinnamon (depending how adventurous one was). It had been six decades since his first marriage (philandering husband), maybe a year or so since Charity (a fling?), a month since the whole Abigael debacle (<em>highly </em>regrettable), and he still had <em>no</em> earthly idea of how to be a gentleman worthy of a second date.</p><p>Having found the requisite cabernet and the cream, cacao, bitters, and cinnamon, Harry retreated to the kitchen for a bit of brew-making. He could hear Mel and Maggie laughing on the sofa, munching on popcorn and M&amp;Ms, watching the aughts-era Charmed of yore, which they evidently found immensely therapeutic after the whole “Chucky the Chupacabra” incident earlier this morning.</p><p>Harry wasn’t surprised that Macy wasn’t watching the series alongside Mel and Maggie; she often quietly retreated into her bedroom for journaling, to the garden to dance to Arlissa, or to garden (he had seen her tinkering about the clay pots behind the shed). He could’ve sworn he saw her marking the outside corner of the shed with Arlissa’s lyrics “99 good things just 1 bad” in silvery ink, or perhaps that was his imagination—he could never be quite sure with the Vera/Vaughn ladies just what they were up to.</p><p>
  <em>10 pm, Macy’s bedroom</em>
</p><p>Harry knocked on Macy’s bedroom with the canistered chocolate wine and glass flutes, for a peace offering of sorts. He thought this might be a potential step in a promising direction—maybe. However, after a couple minutes of knocking, then a hesitant opening of the door, Macy was nowhere to be found. And he knew that she had last retired there, and she had not gained the gift of wingless flight anytime recently. <em>Where then, had she gone?! </em>Harry reflected it was entirely possible she hopped over to the Command Center and could have gone to an international locale, but realized he hadn’t had a single discussion yet of the places she loved and longed to visit, and at this moment, sorely wished he had, if only to find her, and let her love him, in whatever way they each knew how.</p><p>Harry rifled through Macy’s desk area, her crystals, and a world map. His scrying skill led him to believe she was on 37.7412° N, 25.6756° W, and her journal, dated to a few hours ago, had one word.</p><p>“Azores.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Azores Islands</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>4 Azores Islands</p><p>
  <em>10:02 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Harry rifled through Macy’s desk area, her crystals, and a world map. His scrying skill led him to believe she was on 37.7412° N, 25.6756° W, and her journal, dated to a few hours ago, had one word.</p><p>“Azores.”</p><p>Harry clattered down the stairs, canistered chocolate wine and all in a picnic basket he’d found in the attic, and tapped Maggie on the shoulder. “Maggie. Kitchen. NOW.”</p><p>Maggie, looking confused, followed him in, wearing cherry-red fruit-printed pajamas, shielding her eyes from the brightness of the overhead lighting, a sharp contrast to the movie theater-style setting she had with Mel in the other darkened room. “Harry, what is it?”</p><p>Harry, placing the closed picnic basket on the table, paced back and forth, trying to decide 1. Whether to ask Maggie for help again, 2. How much Maggie needed to know, and 3. Whether Maggie could be trusted to be discreet. He uttered a long sigh, and figured this was his best possible shot at finding Macy in a very short period of time. “Maggie, I need you to touch this journal entry that states “Azores,” while looking at the coordinates I have written alongside it. I am looking for someone and it’s very time sensitive.”</p><p>Maggie nodded, slightly apprehensive. She gingerly reached over to touch the journal entry, and opened her mind to the location, wherever this “Azores” place was in the world. (To be honest, she’d never heard of the place before, and thought at first it was the name of a <em>Transformers </em>movie prequel.) The familiar jolt and rush of energy surrounded her, as she stated aloud to Harry: “<em>Madalena. Manuel de Arriaga. Epicenter Pico, No. 23,” </em>and subsequently opened her eyes.  </p><p>Harry breathed a small sigh of relief. “Thank you so much, Mags. I’ll be back later.” He clutched the picnic basket from the kitchen table, as if to leave immediately.</p><p>“Oh—and Harry—” Maggie interrupted his train of thought—“pack a pair of swim trunks.” She’d seen a hot tub in her vision of the picturesque island locale; it suddenly dawned on her that Harry seemed too much in a rush to depart and could have sworn she saw fancy silverware and matching crystal flutes in the picnic basket. Her apprehension changed into a slightly cheeky grin.</p><p>“Roger that.” Harry took the picnic basket, went back upstairs to Macy’s bedroom, grabbed a pair that had been flung under her dresser, and orbed out to the Azores, Madalena, Epicenter Pico, No. 23, hoping beyond hope that he was not too late.</p><p>
  <em>10:15 pm Seattle, Washington/5:15 am, Madalena Village, Azores Islands (“Azores”)</em>
</p><p>Harry landed neatly in front of Epicenter Pico, No. 23. He made as if to knock, but changed his mind, instead twisting the doorknob, using a bit of magic he’d learned in his whitelighter training. He heard a bit of Corinne Bailey Rae music filtering in from beneath the doorframe, and knew he’d arrived at the right location.</p><p>From the online floor plan, he understood that this was an austere-yet-somewhat classy piece of architecture, with a king-sized bed, a decent-sized balcony, and a 4-foot-deep hot tub in the middle of said balcony. This place was unusually situated further away from the island water, but within view—likely to avoid attracting any unwanted attention, nature or otherwise. Harry walked into the kitchen, placing his wares inside what appeared to be a largely empty fridge, save for a couple of cans of sparkling water, some guava juice, tropical fruit (pre-sliced coconut, papaya, and pineapple), and a veggie platter. He saw that the screened door leading to the hot tub was partially open; he checked his visage in a nearby bathroom mirror, and shed his clothes save for his swim trunks.</p><p>
  <em>5:20 am, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23</em>
</p><p>Harry could see Macy’s effortlessly curly hair from where he was standing, mere feet away—her curvy, sensuous figure, deep within the steam-sodden bubbles, her toes curling and unfurling every other second. She appeared engrossed in a bit of smutty iPhone Reddit literature (her phone, the only source of light, was propped up next to the hot tub by a 1000-page epigenetics book).</p><p><em>The smut, no doubt, was meant to take the edge off an extremely stressful week</em>, he thought to himself, as he drew closer and silently entered the water, silently thanking the Elders for his soundless, piranha-like, whitelighting abilities.</p><p>Macy’s eyes were slightly closed by this time, as if she meant to drift off to a hazy sleep, dreaming hornily of Harry’s hard member rubbing itself on her barenaked back, in slow circles around the base of her spine, and she sucked her breath in sharply, feeling herself moisten. She opened her eyes, finding Harry doing just that, encircling her from behind, though wearing swim trunks.</p><p>“Is it really you?” Macy asked, without turning around.</p><p>“Yes—” Harry said. “Maggie directed me here.” Macy nodded, knowing exactly how that could’ve come about. She stole a quick glance at his trunks, where she detected the barest hint of an erection. “You’re different,” she breathed.</p><p>“Do you like it?” Harry uttered in her ear.</p><p>“Fuck yes,” she whispered, grinding her hips into him, causing him to groan with pleasure.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Titanium</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>5 Titanium</p><p>
  <em>5:20 am, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Hot Tub then Master Bathroom Shower</em>
</p><p>“Do you like it?” Harry uttered in her ear.</p><p>“Fuck yes,” she whispered, grinding her hips into him, causing him to groan with pleasure.</p><p>“Gods, woman” he whispered. Recovering a bit, he whispered about making their way to the shower. Macy assented, using telekinesis to conjure a beach towel from the main entrance way (“<em>Good girl” </em>he muttered). Drying themselves off, they entered back through the screen door, carefully laying the wet towel on what resembled an ecru-colored faux leather beachfront barstool chair, and placed Macy’s cell phone on the kitchen counter.</p><p>Just then, Harry’s muscular arms swept Macy off her feet, and she found herself straddling him and kissing his brown wavy locks, as he carried her into the master bathroom glass-enclosed shower, laden with titanium fixtures, including a strongly-powered showerhead that had a most….<em>suggestive</em>…appearance, Harry mused to himself. He gently placed Macy back on her feet, and they disrobed each other, in an spontaneous-yet somewhat-methodical manner—Harry rained a slow-but-steady mountain of kisses down Macy’s shoulders, as he unclipped her dark olive green bikini top, and tenderly freed strands of her coiled tresses that had inadvertently woven themselves around the straps, much like the inveigling of ivy branches around the sturdy oaken trees he was accustomed to back in England.</p><p>
  <em>5:30 am, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Master Bathroom Shower</em>
</p><p>After the shower tap had been turned to a warm/hot setting by Macy, and the bathroom door securely closed and locked (just because), by Harry, who wasn’t taking any chances after the Marisol mirror incident, he entered the enclosed glass and inspected the showerhead further, with an inquisitive expression.</p><p>Unlike most wide-headed showerheads, this titanium fount had a feminine-grip handle (Macy had slender hands—not to be mistaken with fragile, by any means), 2-inch girth, and was roughly 10 inches long. The first three inches were the grip handle, and the remaining seven inches, <em>well</em>. Of the seven inches, the water sprang from the tip (1 inch), which bore a startling resemblance to—he looked down at his own circumcised anatomy—<em>him.</em></p><p>“<em>Ahem.</em>” Harry looked up to see Macy entering the now-fogged glass shower, giving him a shy-yet-enigmatic expression.</p><p>“I custom-ordered it ages ago after 3-D printing a makeshift prototype,” she remarked, attempting to be casual. “Ever since my encounter with Dark Harry, I’d realized that though I chose <em>you</em>, the whitelighter, I also wanted to explore how you felt—every inch of you. Of course, that was all before these past two weeks. Are you”—she hesitated, averting his gaze—“sufficiently weirded out?”</p><p>Harry gently lifted Macy’s visage upward, to meet his eyes, which were the most dilated (and smoldering) Macy had ever seen; the tops of their foreheads met. “Macy—Marcella Yesenia—Vaughn,” he declared in a low growl that made Macy’s spine tingle, “you are the most brilliantly seductive minx I have ever met in my life.”</p><p>Macy smiled slowly, somewhat relieved. “You’ve done your research, I see.”</p><p>“Just an educated guess—but we’ll save that for tomorrow, shall we?” Harry murmured, as he stroked her cheekbone in a single caress.</p><p>Macy nodded. <em>There’s always a proper time and place. </em>On a whim, she gathered up vanilla honey-scented bath wash from a bottle laying on the adjoining shelf, and began lathering up Harry’s broad and angular chest. She had always dreamed of this moment, post-Dark Harry, but when reality hit and <em>her </em>whitelighter Harry was in front of her, she was a bit lost as to what to do. She slowed the lathering—their eyes met for what seemed to be a very pregnant pause—which broke when their lips crashed together in a sudden burst of unbridled passion as their arms swam around each other, her tongue meeting his, as she felt her backbone sidle up against the misted glass in the next half-second. <em>Between glass and a hard place. </em>Her vastly overthinking-borderlining-on-pathological tendencies were booted off the proverbial cliff, and between biting each other’s necks and alternately kissing those erogenous areas, she found herself wanting <em>much </em>more.</p><p>
  <em>5:40 am, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Master Bathroom Shower to Master Bedroom</em>
</p><p>While swirling Harry’s hair and tracing his profile with her finger to his lips with her left hand and kissing him, she simultaneously placed her right hand on Harry’s member, stroking it slowly (it was downright perpendicular at this point), and she could see the slightest bit of silvery-white emanating from its round-edged tip. She bit her lip, thinking of all the ways she could drive him positively mad.</p><p>Harry pinned Macy’s right hand above her head, nibbling her neck, to her utter enjoyment. In one deft move, he then turned off the shower tap, and, lifting her up so that she was straddling him, proceeded to carry her over the marbled bathroom threshold into the simple-yet-sophisticated master bedroom (he detected a giggle or two coming from her), both of them tumbling <em>just so</em> onto the king bed’s Egyptian 800 cotton threadcount sheets.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The Strange Morning of Matias</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>6 The Strange Morning of Matias</p><p>
  <em>5:41 am, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Master Bedroom</em>
</p><p>Harry and Macy tumbled <em>just so</em> onto the king bed’s Egyptian 800 cotton threadcount sheets, drawing the other nearer in the most sensual of ways. Harry found himself once more, on top, with a glorious view of Macy’s sumptuous breasts. <em>He knew that had he not had any sense of self-control, he would’ve come already</em>. Instinctively he cupped one in his hand (and eventually the other), alternately massaging and licking her peach-hued nubs, which he was secretly pleased to see grow harder under his wanting touch. Macy gasped in ecstasy, yanking his hair back with her tightly-clenched fist, as he drew a warm breath onto the nape of her neck, biting her and eliciting a slap to his ass as a physical retort. Harry instinctively thrust himself nearer to Macy’s soft and moist opening, and as she guided him in, they both uttered an enraptured exhalation.</p><p>Macy had once read a human anatomy book during her sophomore year of college (<em>was that really a decade ago?</em>) that stated that the pain receptors in one’s brain were closely intertwined with one’s pleasure receptors in the same cranial region, and given the current state of things in her bedroom on the Azores, thirty-nine minutes before the vermillion-splashed sultry sunrise would appear in the picture window above the foot of her bed, she knew this to be true.</p><p>
  <em>5:41 and 30 milliseconds am, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 22, Overlooking the Window of Pico No. 23 Master Bedroom</em>
</p><p>Practical grey-haired, seventy-something Matias who lived at Epicenter Pico No. 22 <em>thank-you-very-much</em>, was a dedicated early riser and today was no different. He strode past his nondescript carpeted living room into the unadorned yellowing linoleum kitchen, bare save for a stained-glass religious relic nailed to the room’s threshold, given to him by a much-younger niece during her sojourn in Madrid for a study abroad program.</p><p>Having gathered his dried spices from a hook-locked kitchen cabinet to sell at the herbal market, he meticulously de-stemmed the roughage and laid the delicate fronds on the kitchen table, with pre-cut twine for making individually wrapped bundles he knew would charm the mainland tourists. He had noticed that his neighbor’s window in No. 23 was covered, its pristine curtains quivering in particular staccato-esque tonality, but figured it must be the bidirectional wind that often hit the island at the most inconvenient of moments. Matias had more important things to worry about—his arthritis was flaring up again, and he needed the herbs to cover his discretionary living expenses, post-retirement.</p><p>However, whether because of his arthritic joints or not, Matias noticed he was unable to firmly grasp the herbs to tie them together. Finding a nearby magnifying glass in his oubliette drawer, he drew the outsized lens to his eye to view the herbs.</p><p>The dried herbs were—<em>vibrating. </em>Millimeters of distance varied as the plants, heretofore devoid of life, alternately jumped of their own accord—1/2 a millimeter, 1 millimeter, 2, no—<em>three</em>! Matias hadn’t recalled exchanging his euros for Mexican jumping beans, <em>but there was always a first time</em>, he supposed.</p><p>Almost instinctively, his gaze shot toward his stained-glass relic, which he too noticed was oscillating of its own accord; when he placed his own weathered hand to the object and heard minute and repetitive motions, rhythmic and seemingly coming from nowhere, he seized the object, and sweeping his herbs and string into a canvas satchel, hurriedly departed for the marketplace to meet Morgana and finalize his wares there, wondering if he was finally starting to go senile, or if he had just experienced his first 3.5-level earthquake in Madalena.</p><p>
  <em>5:41 am and 50 milliseconds, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Master Bedroom</em>
</p><p>In the dark cocoon of the No. 23 master bedroom, the Azorian scent of clove and allspice wafted through the slightly-cracked-open window, past the pulsating curtains.</p><p>Harry repeatedly thrust himself into Macy’s soft and moist opening, and as they both moaned in pleasure, neck-nipping and aligning so their toes, knees, up to their eyelashes touched and intertwined in the most naughty of ways, he repositioned Macy’s legs so that they were wrapped against his well-built back. Beads of perspiration appeared on Harry and Macy’s temples, and besides the jumping herbs and peculiar curtains, the ecru beach chair had shot towards the interior entranceway from the kitchen (blocking the doorway entirely), but neither noticed nor cared. <em>Stay with me forever Harry</em>, her subconscious powers seemed to say.</p><p>Macy felt Harry grow hot and pulsing within her, and knew this sordid ecstasy was coming to a close. Harry gave a knowing glance at Macy. <em>I’m coming. </em>Macy understood what the look meant; she tightened her limbs surrounding Harry, and bit the nape of his neck, bringing him over the edge as he exploded his essence into her.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. How Marcella Yesenia Became Macy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>7 How Marcella Yesenia Became Macy</p><p>
  <em>Noon, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Master Bathroom</em>
</p><p>Macy had not slept till noon in just about as long as she could remember, but she did also recall that it was currently 5 am back in Seattle. She knew for a fact that Mel and Maggie, post-movie marathon, typically slept in the next day until at least 3 pm, wherein Maggie would leave for her shift at SafeSpace, and they would all meet up for drinks afterward, around 9 pm. Noon in Azores time was a <em>truly</em> reasonable hour to wake from one’s seductively-imposed slumber, all things considered.</p><p>Assuming Harry was asleep in the tumble of blankets to her side, she had crept from the Spartan bedroom (largely empty on purpose, to avoid glass vases and other such finery being flung about in the midst of uninhibited lovemaking), to the master bathroom, where she stared at herself in the mirror, scrutinizing her hair for several long minutes. For the better part of her young adult life, she had thought of herself as a too-tall, gawky girl with messy, unpredictable hair. She had been told by society, time and time again, to tame her <em>cheveux</em>—to heat-treat it to the umpteenth degree, undoing all of this gift Mother Nature had given her from the very moment she was conceived. Sometimes, her tresses would mold to collective expectations, be it a straightened, flattened, downright lifeless state (“<em>flapper mode</em>”), or larger-diameter corkscrews (the “<em>Shirley Temple</em>”) that would last a day, assuming it was not hit by the humidity she was currently experiencing this very morning. Box braids, though intricately woven and popular in her college years, made her prone to migraines due to her highly sensitive nerve endings. It was a constant losing battle. <em>Ugh. </em>Her hair was in its typically tight curly behavior, with a hint of frizz, and she couldn’t help but grimace at her reflection.</p><p>“Staring at the mirror again, are we, Narcissus?”</p><p>Macy shrieked, startled, then realized it was Harry, who had silently orbed behind her and was now fondling locks of her bouncy tresses with his dexterous fingers, watching as their edges shone a fiery bronze in the blazing sunlight streaming in from the now-visible skylight.</p><p>“I can’t fathom why on earth you’d give yourself a reproachful look, given how stunning and—"  muttering under his breath “<em>utterly fuckable</em> you look.“</p><p>“Wait—<em>what?!</em>” Macy yelped.</p><p>“Nothing—grabbing breakfast!” And with that, Harry orbed out of the bathroom into the kitchen, where he retrieved the chocolate wine and cream from earlier. He set out the platter of coconut, papaya, and pineapple on the kitchen bar, and laid out the crystal wine flutes, pouring the rich, frothy liquid into both after a couple of shakes in the silver canister.</p><p>Macy rolled her eyes and followed him to the kitchen table for the promised delectable repast, and the earlier-promised discussion about her name. <em>Marcella Yesenia. </em></p><p>
  <em>12:15 pm, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Kitchen Table</em>
</p><p>After tucking into their breakfast of chocolate wine and fruit, Macy gingerly broached the subject. “Harry, I know the Elders tell you everything, so I shouldn’t even bother, but—how much do you know about my name?”</p><p>Harry swallowed hard and pushed around a stray fragment of pineapple before speaking. “Like you, I know that you were originally stillborn, but brought back to life vis-à-vis necromancer negotiations.” Macy nodded—she was fully aware of that. “What I had found out from the Elders though,” Harry elaborated further, “is that due to your having both a birth and death certificate on account of your stillbirth (fully signed by both parents), your being alive was quite a tricky conundrum to navigate.” He looked at Macy with a piercing glance, to see if she grasped the gravity of the situation. <em>Of course she did.</em></p><p>“Macy, your full name on your birth and death certificate was <em>Marcella Yesenia</em>. You were named after your father Dexter’s great-aunts, the renowned Valensi sisters, who were born and raised in the Azores circa the 1920s. Their names, if you might or might not recall, were—”</p><p>“Della Marcella, Dora Yesenia, and Darcy Madalena Valensi,” Macy whispered.</p><p>“Correct.” Harry pressed onward. “And given the distinctiveness of your name, your mother felt that your death certificate, if ever discovered upon registration for daycare, grade school, college, and beyond, would cause such a lifelong problem that it was best to start on a blank slate.” Macy nodded slowly, knowing just how complicated paper trails could be back in the 1990s, even pre-iPhone and pre-internet. She would have been forced to flee every school district mid-year, unable to make friends at all, a hunted creature in the eyes of the local state police, Child Protective Services, and really, the whole of the U.S. justice system at large, as if being a minority in America weren’t challenging enough. Unsavory individuals could have seized upon her death certificate and kidnapped her for Kevorkian-style medical experimentation. She shuddered involuntarily but bade him continue.</p><p>“From the little I know, your mother was with you until age 2, and both of your parents grappled with this birth certificate issue, not knowing what to name you, or how to hide your death certificate, until you started saying your first words—”</p><p>Macy teared up. “<em>Macy</em>,” she murmured.</p><p>Harry nodded. “I’m guessing <em>Marcella Yesenia </em>was too complicated a set of syllables for even a precocious toddler such as yourself to pronounce, and one of your first words was, in fact, <em>Macy</em>. That settled things for your parents. When you turned 2, Marisol disappeared as per the necromancer’s agreement, and Dexter wrote to the Pennsylvania Department of Vital Records to request a new birth certificate for a certain <em>Macy Vaughn</em>, which he signed—and left your mother Marisol’s name purposefully blank, to save her life in the process.”</p><p>Macy stared into space, digesting these facts that had just come to light. “Maybe it would have been better if I’d never been born,” she mumbled to herself. “I’ve made things so complicated—Marisol and my dad would still be married, Maggie could’ve known her biological dad—”</p><p>“But <em>you </em>wouldn’t have been alive, nor Mel, and Maggie wouldn’t necessarily be who she is today without Ray there to offer key life lessons” Harry said gently, taking Macy’s hand in his. Macy smiled to herself; she realized Harry was probably correct—and he always knew just the right things to say that would mend her precious, broken, and battle-scarred heart.</p><p>
  
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  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Denis and Terezinha</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charmed CW characters belong to Charmed CW. Light historical and anthropological research was conducted for contextual purposes, then fictionalized for the purposes of this story (e.g., AskAHistorian Reddit, Azores Reddit, Azores Tourism websites, ResearchGate, Wikipedia, etc.).</p><p>8 Denis and Terezinha</p><p>
  <em>12:30 pm, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Kitchen Table</em>
</p><p>And the conversation at the breakfast table then turned to Epicenter Pico—the condo—itself. Harry wasn’t about to inquire, as he felt an inhibited sense of whitelighter decorum; the Elders hadn’t mentioned anything about a piece of island property, and if it didn’t concern the Elders, then it certainly wouldn’t have been a trouble to him.</p><p>Still, Harry looked around while seated, surveying the airy interior; sensing his unasked questions, Macy decided it was her cue to speak.</p><p>“Denis Serge lived amongst the foothills of what is now Guinea’s Mount Nimba Strict Nature Reserve. From my research, the area borders the Ivory Coast and is a UNESCO World Heritage site that provides jobs with fair pay for the locals, but back in the 1670s, things were much different.”</p><p>“How do you mean?” Harry inquired. “And who is Denis?”</p><p>Macy exhaled slowly. “I’ll explain from the beginning.” Harry sat back, intrigued; he could already tell this was going to be a most peculiar tale.</p><p>“A Portuguese man, António Garcia, obtained an Asiento contract, which he held from 1674-1675, solely meant for the obtaining of indentured persons from Guinea. <em>Slaves.</em>”</p><p>“—<em>bloody hell</em>” Harry muttered.</p><p>Macy nodded, continuing. “Deception and bribery wasn’t uncommon back then; the Asiento contract was somehow reintroduced in the year 1680, leading to what was probably the worst years of Denis’ life. According to Vaughn family lore, Denis had brought his meticulously-tied bundles of <em>melagueta</em> peppers to the local market, which was suddenly raided in a flurry of weaponry and abject, unjustifiable violence. He was captured in the melee and sentenced to forced servitude on the sugarcane fields of the Azores Islands.”</p><p>Harry looked horrified. “Did he have any living family in Guinea? Parents, brothers, sisters?”</p><p>Macy shook her head. “None that I know of—but there’s so little information out there right now. But I assume, at the very least, he had an aged aunt or two waiting for him to come home. And he never did.” She swallowed hard after a couple minutes’ pause. “Basically, Denis’ ship disembarked on Pico (one of several Azores Islands), and he was assigned to the fields of the prosperous Giordana family, one of whom was named Terezinha (Tera) Giordana.”</p><p>“And this Tera woman—what was she like?” asked Harry curiously.</p><p>“I’m not 100% sure, but my grandfather said she later emerged as the town eccentric. Tera was immersed in the healing arts and one might suppose, magic. She was adopted into the Giordana family after having been left on their doorstep as a newborn. Within several weeks of Denis’ arrival, Tera noticed that he had skills in the way of preparing <em>melagueta </em>peppers and similar spices, and convinced her father to let her apprentice him (<em>to further the spice trade</em>, she claimed). The Azores back then was extraordinarily diverse (Africans, Chinese, and Indian people living among the European transplants) but hierarchical, with plenty of ambiguity in between. Tera took full advantage of that. Things grew tense when her father passed away suddenly, and she was left to the mercy of her older, abusive stepbrothers, who tried to marry her off to a Mr. Morton Chase, Esquire, a traveling evangelical who like Tera, was of ambiguous ethnic origin. Fortunately they failed—Denis and Tera ran away together, eventually returning once the stepbrothers were dead, to buy up a small plot of land that stayed in the family and became the Epicenter Pico condo you know today.”</p><p>Harry whistled. “<em>Wow.</em> I must ask—do Mel and Mags know?”</p><p>“…Not exactly, no,” Macy admitted. “To be honest, I had no idea myself, until my dad passed recently and left me with the property deed. I thought it was all too wild of a story to be true. This was the stuff of bedtime stories he would tell me when I was little—the lifelong adventures his Guinean ancestor Denis and Azorian matriarch Terazinha, he called them. He claimed he was their namesake—that he was named after them—as <em>Dexter</em>.”</p><p>“And to clarify, the Valensi sisters Della, Dora, and Darcy descended from Denis and Tera—two centuries later, circa the 1920s. Born and bred Azorians?” Harry inquired.</p><p>“Correct.” Macy rose and Harry followed suit, clearing the kitchen table of the dishes, and placing the leftover fruit in the refrigerator.</p><p>Harry couldn’t for the life of him imagine why, but the name <em>Darcy Madalena Valensi </em>sounded eerily, oddly familiar…</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
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  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Jimmy & Darcy: Tessera Nightclub, Summer 1941</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charmed CW characters belong to Charmed CW. Denis and Tera, Darcy, Della, and Dora Valensi are my imagination at work. Light 1940s research was conducted for context.</p><p>9 Jimmy &amp; Darcy: Tessera Nightclub, Summer 1941</p><p>Celeste knew James (“Jimmy”) Westwell hadn’t always been a philandering cad. Be that as it may, it never made cleaning up after him any easier.</p><p>
  <em>Midnight, Oldham, Greater Manchester, July 1941</em>
</p><p>Fresh-faced, jaunty Jimmy Westwell was out on the town celebrating with chums after yet another successful performance as Puck in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” at Oldham Coliseum Theatre. After at least ten pub-crawls however, the men were growing exhausted. At this point, Jimmy rounded a corner, and a building appeared as if by magic that he never recalled seeing before. He pointed out the establishment excitedly, but his theater chums fell away as they had early morning rehearsal, or girlfriends to rendezvous with.</p><p>Jimmy found himself completely and utterly alone.</p><p>“Tessera Nightclub,” the marquee read. “Free entry, closes 1 am.” Luckily, Jimmy was dressed as dapper as ever, with a white-collared dress shirt, dark pants, and a matching navy blue suit jacket. He showed the doorman his identification and was admitted into what vaguely resembled a sorceress’ jazz club.  Jimmy walked the back perimeter of the locale, closely observing both the commonplace and unusual sights one might associate with such a place. The saxophones were there, the bass performed excellently, but he detected an odd scent of jasmine intermingled with frankincense and patchouli, deep purple silk hangings as far as the eye could see, and could have sworn he saw rose quartz energy crystals hanging in the eaves. </p><p>After exchanging his quid for a “Salem Witch Cocktail” (club soda, melon liqueur, lime juice, grenadine, and lord knows what else), Jimmy heard the final act perform—a truly beguiling singer with the most intriguing hair and complexion he had ever seen. He, personally, was not drawn to limpid, somber British women whose time in the sun oftentimes left them ill-tempered, red-faced, and raw.</p><p>The singer went by the name “Miss Darcy” and sang a slow, sultry, captivating song she wrote herself, named “For You I Wait, Hut 8,” which went something like this:</p><p>Stanza 1:</p><p>
  <em>Hello baby, meet me ‘round the tea lights of Hut 8,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I wait, under three shooting stars for you, to woo,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Me—Oh! Think of the infinite sparks we could create—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Whirl me ‘round, whatever you do, don’t dare be late.</em>
</p><p>Stanza 2:</p><p>
  <em>Promise me midnight’s opaline moon,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hold my raven hand in your white light, and baby, I’ll swoon.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'll be your onyx, I’ll be your lady,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Just please, won’t you say maybeeee…</em>
</p><p>Miss Darcy looked straight at Jimmy as she uttered her lines. Noticing her gaze, he looked around and noticed that the few men there appeared momentarily transfixed, almost frozen entirely, but for their audible breathing and reliably ticking Jaeger-LeCoultre wristwatches, a new men’s fashion trend as of late. He also observed a rather severe-looking woman, referred to as “Elder Celeste” by others nearby celebrating said woman’s birthday while dressed in long, cloaked robes. Jimmy thought he saw Celeste arguing with the bartender about how slow her Djinn-and-tonic was taking and how nobody knew how to make it correctly. He would have thought the entire situation peculiar, if he hadn’t been completely besotted with the talented, beautiful Miss Darcy.</p><p>
  <em>1 am, Oldham, Greater Manchester, July 1941</em>
</p><p>Tessera Nightclub closed for the evening, and Jimmy was unceremoniously left to his own devices, the door having been shut and thoroughly padlocked. He looked around, first to his left, and then to his right. The Tessera crowd had dispersed rather quickly—there was no one in sight. He noticed a door adjoining the nightclub that had purple streamers in its window and on a whim, decided to knock.</p><p>“<em>Come in,” </em>a mellifluous voice responded.</p><p>Jimmy entered, closing the door behind him. He walked through the dark-yet-vibrant mauve flat, ensconced in deep plum-colored draperies, noticing all of the stringed crystals and burning incense sticks, eight to each windowpane corner, their scalded heads slowly crumpling into darkened, lifeless pellets.</p><p>“I’m—”</p><p>“Jimmy. I know,” the lady answered.</p><p>Jimmy followed her voice until he reached the one bedroom at the end of the hall, its door wide open, lit with a multitude of open-flamed candles. It was the starlet Miss Darcy herself.</p><p>“How?”</p><p>“Celeste. Older lady. Nothing escapes her,” Darcy answered. “The question is, though, <em>why </em>is she so interested in you?”</p><p>“I have no earthly idea,” said Jimmy, puzzled at this strange twist of events. He wanted to tell Darcy how wonderful he thought her music was, not discuss the eccentricities of a crotchety, middle-aged woman.</p><p>“Celeste wants me to get to know you, so I will. She muttered something about my Hut 8 song being a centuries-long prophecy, but I have no idea what that has to do with anything. And I’m pretty sure her drink was a bit too strong tonight for her to make any sense, <em>if </em>you know what I mean. Why were you here tonight?” Darcy fixed her mahogany eyes on his visage.</p><p>“I—I’m an actor—I was out celebrating—and I saw Tessera Nightclub. I mean—I’ve never seen it before in my life. Quite impressive, the music and décor, really—” Jimmy stammered nervously, as Darcy continued studying him.</p><p>“Tessera Nightclub reaches out to people. This building called out to you for help,” declared Darcy.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Jimmy & Darcy: The Mauve Flat Prophecy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charmed CW characters belong to Charmed CW. Denis and Tera, Darcy, Della, and Dora Valensi are my imagination at work. Light 1940s research was conducted for context.</p><p>10 Jimmy &amp; Darcy: The Mauve Flat Prophecy</p><p>
  <em>1:10 am, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, Darcy’s Bedroom, July 1941</em>
</p><p>Having nervously stepped into Darcy’s candlelit room, Jimmy soon regained his composure as he spotted her vinyl records collection. He was relieved that the litany of candles were mostly on overhead shelving; making his way to her miniature music library wouldn’t elicit an accidental fire.</p><p>The flickering candle flames trembling against the plum and mauve, the dangling multitude of crystals and the wafting incense, soon gave Jimmy a sense of mystical, otherworldly ambiance.</p><p>After several minutes of thumbing through her vinyls, one stood out in particular—the 1937 theater production of “Babes In Arms.” He mouthed “<em>May I</em>?” as he motioned to the nearby phonograph.</p><p>Darcy nodded, viewing his reflection through her mirror, as she finished removing her glittering stage makeup. She often felt the pressure to conform to showgirl standards and wear heavier, caked makeup, with advertisements she constantly saw of talcum powder and so-claimed “genuine” Egyptian kohl. Despite this, Darcy generally opted for a more minimalist approach, emphasizing her prominent cheekbones and her sensuous burgundy lips.</p><p>Jimmy laid the vinyl record on the turnstile, adjusting the overhead needle until the character Billie Smith could be heard crooning the song “My Funny Valentine” to his one-and-only Valentine “Val” LaMar. They listened in rapt attention, together.</p><p>
  <em>1:20 am, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, Darcy’s Bedroom, July 1941</em>
</p><p>The phonograph skipped a beat, and the vinyl record had reached its sudden, static-filled end.</p><p>“Tell me, Darcy, how did someone as lovely and talented as you, end up in Oldham, Manchester, of all places?” Jimmy asked, breaking the silence, now cross-legged on her surprisingly soft-and-inviting queen-sized bed.</p><p>Darcy, still seated, turned around, facing him from a mere couple of feet away. Jimmy felt she exhibited an aura of grace and enthralling sparkle that glowed mysteriously from within, even without the makeup she wiped off.</p><p>“The record you heard playing was an 18th birthday gift from funds Dora and Della, my sisters, pulled together, specially ordered from America. I had been dabbling in jazz, you see, and singing for as long as I could remember.”</p><p>“Is there more to Darcy though?” Jimmy pressed. “What’s your full name?”</p><p>Darcy suggestively raised an eyebrow. “If I told you, I would have to kill you.”</p><p>Jimmy noticeably blanched.</p><p>“Kidding!!” Darcy burst into peals of laughter, breaking the ice. After a momentary pause, she went on. “My name is Darcy Madalena Valensi, and a recent time ago, I made my way to Manchester on a hope and a wish, to pursue my dreams of being a jazz singer. Of course, that meant leaving Dora and Della behind in our Pico home at the Azores Islands, and forever abandoning my shared familial role as an herbal healer.” Darcy’s visage then clouded, as she mulled over whether Jimmy could be trusted with an additional nugget of knowledge.</p><p>“Is there something you want to tell me?” Jimmy asked, seeing the strange expression on her face.</p><p>“Well…now that you mention it…” Darcy’s voice trailed off. Her eyes touched on her immediate surroundings—the trinkets, the tchotchkes, the crystals, the candles, the sheer amount of purple permeating the room.</p><p>“…Do you believe in magic?”</p><p>
  <em>1:30 am, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, Darcy’s Bedroom, July 1941</em>
</p><p>Jimmy mulled over the question in his mind. Having been in theater, he was used to all sorts of superstitious perspectives. “As in, pulling a rabbit out of a magician’s top hat?”</p><p>“Not exactly—” Darcy replied. “Do you believe in prophecy?”</p><p>“Akin to predestination—that your life is already planned out for you, no matter what?” Jimmy posited.</p><p>“Sort of. When I was a child, an elderly female soothsayer in Pico foretold that at the tender age of twenty-one, I would die from, (<em>and I quote</em>), ‘that which fell from the sky.’” Darcy stated, matter-of-factly.</p><p>“And you and your family believed the soothsayer?” asked Jimmy, a bit skeptical. “What if it were all made up? Or what if it were all a strange misunderstanding?”</p><p>Darcy shook her head. “The elderly woman was very well-respected throughout the Azorian community. The <em>Nostradamus </em>of the town. At the time, my family owned a blossoming coconut grove, but soon sold it upon hearing these words.”</p><p>“But—” faltered Jimmy, trying to think of <em>anything </em>that would counteract the prediction—"maybe the woman lost her marbles?”</p><p>“I thought at first, maybe that was the case. And indeed, I would have forgotten about such words, but little incidents kept happening, each growing in seriousness. One day, I was pelted by sugar beets unceremoniously hurled by a São Miguel bullfinch. Another day, a stalk of tobacco nearly felled my leg. It was never-ending, and each escalated into another unfortunate happenstance, and then another. It was always when I least expected it. After an incident where a banana tree nearly caused me a concussion a year ago, it was agreed that I would pursue my music career far away from the Azores, to give me the best possible chance at self-preservation. As it happens, I learned through the music grapevine that the renowned Tessera Nightclub in Manchester was advertising for a jazz singer, and I figured I had as good a chance as any.”</p><p>“How old are you, Darcy?” Jimmy then asked.</p><p>“Twenty-one since August of last year,” replied Darcy.</p><p>“Then—assuming what you say is true,” Jimmy went through the scenario mentally, “you have…” he checked his calculations—”less than one month to live?”</p><p>“<em>So it would seem</em>.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Jimmy & Darcy: Ephemera, and Hot Damn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charmed CW characters belong to Charmed CW. Denis and Tera, Darcy, Della, and Dora Valensi are my imagination at work. Light 1940s research was conducted for context.</p><p>11 Jimmy &amp; Darcy: Ephemera, and Hot Damn</p><p>
  <em>1:35 am, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, Darcy’s Bedroom, July 11, 1941</em>
</p><p>Jimmy was contemplating all that this wide-eyed, mysterious Miss Darcy had said. On the one hand, he had never actually thought of magic as <em>real</em>. On the other hand, this lady was so fearful that she would meet her maker in a couple of weeks’ time and she seemed fairly lucid and convincing, even to his theatrically-trained eye. Even if Darcy had misplaced trust in an errant soothsayer, he knew that he himself had laid credence in far worse as of late—drinking and carousing being one example of his burgeoning debauchery.</p><p><em>Perhaps this was my chance at redemption</em>, Jimmy thought to himself. <em>Maybe, once and for all, I’ll break the cycle of alcoholics in my family, mostly layabouts that refuse to get a job or tear up their wartime draft cards due to sheer insolence, not to mention the cousins who forge ration cards to cheat the system.</em></p><p>Jimmy’s acting season as Puck had ended, as it was summer; he had an endless amount of free time until September, and nothing to do. (He’d been ineligible for the draft due to a minor congenital heart condition.) Reaching out to clasp Darcy’s delicate hand in between him, he looked her carefully in the eye. “What about death are you scared of? And really—what frightens you generally?”</p><p>“I’m scared of leaving my little family behind,” she murmured, half to herself. Jimmy assumed she meant her sisters Dora and Della on the island. “I’m scared of the air raid sirens I hear at strange and unseemly intervals each day, <em>every </em>day. The quaking bits of earth that disturb the plastered crown molding that rains down like snow from the ceiling. The high-pitched screams of abject terror by the local passerby. The knowledge that my fleeing the islands was in vain—I never once thought, in a million years, that a war would possibly happen here. But mostly—” Darcy’s eyes welled up. “I’m scared of dying alone.”</p><p>She laughed ironically, a tear escaping an eye, despite her efforts to rein her emotions in. “The funny thing is though, that I most of all wonder—who would love—let alone date—an ephemeral girl like me?”</p><p>In response, Jimmy reached over and gently kissed the delicate melanin-hued cheekbone where her single tear had landed.</p><p>“Can you stay with me—keep me company—protect me—these next couple of weeks?” Darcy asked quietly. Jimmy nodded, shifting her curly hair to kiss the most sensitive part of her neck.</p><p>
  <em>8 pm, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, July 18, 1941</em>
</p><p>It was one week later, and for the past several days, Darcy had shown Jimmy the Tessera Nightclub’s inner workings—the ticket office, the lighting fixtures surrounding the theater’s perimeter, how the marquee was designed and advertised, and how the rose crystals and purple brocades were to be arranged near patron’s seats. Since it would be uncouth for Jimmy to keep wearing the same suit, shirt, and slacks he had arrived with, he ended up borrowing a male stagehand’s shirts and outfits for the time being. Jimmy didn’t really mind, as it avoided him sticking out like a sore thumb. Also, he had the distinct feeling that if he popped ‘round his own flat to pick up coveralls and slacks, the Tessera Nightclub would have vanished from sight entirely. Clearly Darcy thought the same, or else she would have explicitly instructed him to leave and depart at his leisure.</p><p>By this time, Jimmy and Darcy had established a makeshift schedule of sorts. Early mornings were meant for sleeping; he napped on the velvet chaise sofa in Darcy’s sitting room, with eggplant-purple blankets she had provided. Late morning was when he and Darcy would awaken from their respective rooms; slouched over the kitchen table, Darcy would write her music with equal parts contemplation and fervor, listening to Thelonious Monk and Dizzy Gillespie in the background for creative inspiration. Jimmy and Darcy would then adjourn for a teatime brunch at noon, which mostly consisted of hard-boiled eggs, carrot cake (or some other cake using molasses, due to the butter and sugar shortage), and tea (<em>Earl Grey, peppermint, oolong, for instance</em>). In the afternoon, they would head next door to the theater to help as needed. After a hasty evening supper, the show would go on until 1 am.</p><p>On this particular evening, Darcy had the night off, so Jimmy proposed watching the marquee performance over dinner backstage—he had scoped the place out a couple of days ago, and it was sufficiently hidden enough that he could hear and see the performing musicians, but they could not see him. He told Darcy it was for allowing him to stay with her at the Mauve Flat free of charge—his treat. Jimmy suggested they wear formalwear for the occasion; Darcy readily agreed, and Jimmy hoped she interpreted this as a first date.</p><p>Luckily for him, Jimmy had come upon a white pinstriped suit, sky blue shirt, and a pair of matching slacks in the costume bin that fit him perfectly. He now sat on the velvet chaise sofa in the Mauve Flat, waiting for Darcy to finish dressing and putting on makeup. <em>Five minutes, ten minutes, and another half hour, </em>he counted. <em>Why on earth must women take such a long time to beautify themselves when they already looked the part?</em></p><p>
  <em>8:30 pm, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, July 18, 1941</em>
</p><p>Just then, Jimmy heard the bedroom door creak open slowly.</p><p>
  <em>It was Darcy.</em>
</p><p>Not the “I-just-woke-up-bedhead” Darcy that he secretly came to appreciate, nor the “sequined-and-sultry singer” he saw on his first evening at Tessera, but a taller, goddess-like figure, wearing a form-fitting pearl-colored satin-like dress, covered in a variety of bluebells, tulips, and springtime greenery. Her curls breezed in tendrils about her head, much like an otherworldly halo, and she had switched out her usual stage makeup mulberry lip color for a milder peach-rose that suited her perfectly.</p><p><em>A few extra seconds went by. </em>Jimmy stared at her, wondering how it was possible to be this organically, breathtakingly beautiful. Surely it must be illegal to be just <em>this</em> entrancing. Jimmy wanted to play the chaste and dapper gentleman, but <em>hot damn…</em></p><p>“Is something the matter, Jimmy? You’re gawking like a fish,” said Darcy, puzzled, tilting her head to one side.</p><p>“N-no,” Jimmy breathed. “You’re…looking quite lovely, is all.” Darcy smiling shyly at this, walked toward his figure, now standing next to the eggplant-hued chaise.</p><p>“Shall we?” he said. He offered his arm which she took, as they opened the front door and proceeded that starry, cloudless evening to the Tessera Nightclub, once more.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Jimmy & Darcy: Backstage First Date</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charmed CW characters belong to Charmed CW. Denis and Tera, Darcy, Della, and Dora Valensi are my imagination at work. Light research (including British cuisine and jazz greats/songs, Manuka honey, Norse mythology/Gleipnir) was conducted for context.</p><p>12 Jimmy &amp; Darcy: Backstage First Date</p><p>
  <em>8:40 pm, Oldham, Greater Manchester, Tessera Nightclub’s Backstage, July 18, 1941</em>
</p><p>Jimmy led Darcy to a nondescript stage door, closing it behind him, and they carefully proceeded up the winding black wrought-iron staircase. After a few minutes, they landed on flat, gapped, steel flooring, and Jimmy instructed Darcy to close her eyes. With some effort, he managed to lift a heavy crimson curtain, leading her by the hand all the while. Seconds later, he momentarily let go, to light the candles he had nicked from her bedroom when she wasn’t looking.</p><p>“Open your eyes.” She opened them and gasped in amazement. A small restaurant-style table-for-two with accompanying chairs was presented before her, with fancy silverware and china dishes laden with caramelized roasted garden carrots, a sumptuous lentil stew, boiled red potatoes, and roast salmon with a side of crisp English peas.</p><p>“Before you ask, I saw the greengrocer’s son pass by just outside your window a couple of days ago, and I convinced him to provide me his excess wares with a bit of payment. I used stage props (after washing them of course) and I borrowed your candles, I hope you don’t mind—” Jimmy was rambling, and he knew it.</p><p>“It’s <em>lovely</em>” she exclaimed, kissing him on the cheek. Jimmy blushed, glad that the darkened candlelight could mask it. He pulled her chair out for her, as etiquette deemed proper; she sat, and he took his seat. They tucked into their meal, alternately discussing the properties of rose quartz, and people-watching from their sparrow-like vantage point.</p><p>
  <em>11 pm, Oldham, Greater Manchester, Tessera Nightclub’s Backstage, July 18, 1941</em>
</p><p>The marquee band was performing a boisterous rendition of Duke Ellington’s “Cotton Tail,” much to the delight of the audience. It almost seemed possible for oneself to escape the horrors of the outside by getting lost in the frenetic rhythm and beat of the music—and for those precious minutes, Jimmy and Darcy did just that. Jimmy was rather partial to the blaring trumpet, Darcy to the steady tapping undertone of the drums, for she felt it exhibited the very heartbeat of Tessera Nightclub itself, and didn’t hesitate to tell Jimmy so (<em>he thought it such a poetic way of talking). </em></p><p>Once the band had halted its rapid trombones and brassy melody, the final song began, a slow jazz number by Peggy Lee, entitled “Linger in my arms a little longer baby.” The nightclub had changed its hours from 1 am to before midnight with little to no notice, likely due to the air raids and the necessity of putting up blackout curtains throughout the city.</p><p>Jimmy pushed the table and chairs to the furthest end of the landing, where the plates and silverware were neatly washed and stacked (upon Darcy’s insistence, they had snuck down the winding stairs to the backstage washroom to clean the dishes during the 10 pm intermission). <em>She is so considerate of the stagehands, </em>he mused to himself.</p><p>The music hypnotized the club, placing patrons in a veritable stupor; it was as soothing and sensuous as he imagined it would be. “Dance with me?” Jimmy offered Darcy his hand. Darcy, after a momentary hesitation, took it.</p><p>As they drew nearer together, she placed her head on his angular shoulder, where it lay for some time before she raised it gently of her own accord. The aesthetic tune stretched on, but both were too immersed in the immutable magic of their own little sacrosanct haven to notice much else. Darcy found her face inches away from Jimmy’s—she could see his pale freckles that were rapidly disappearing with age, and noticed his deep smoky eyes that always gave her an odd but not altogether uncomfortable feeling he could see through her very soul. It was almost as if a thin-yet-impenetrable silken <em>rope of Gleipnir</em> were drawing them together by the second, and even closer <em>still</em>…</p><p>Mere infinitesimal millimeters of distance remained between him and her, until finally, Jimmy leaned just that bit forward; their lips met, her toes curled <em>just so</em>, his heartbeat upon her hand, his arm encircling her swan-like shoulder, as they glided soundlessly behind the crimson-covered awning in slow motion, cosseted in the timelessness of this effervescent offstage vignette.</p><p>
  <em>11:30 pm, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, July 19, 1941</em>
</p><p>Darcy and Jimmy ran into the Mauve Flat, quickly closing the door behind them. The Tessera Nightclub had shut down for the evening, and they could hear the waning drone of the all-too-dreadful air raid sirens that had screamed from a distance just mere moments before.</p><p>They ran into Darcy’s bedroom, the furthest chamber from the front door, closing and locking it; together, they shoved a heavy bureau to further barricade its entrance. And it was at this particular moment that Jimmy realized, looking closer toward the only inch of the room not covered in plum tapestry, that Darcy’s flat had not one, but <em>two </em>bathrooms.  </p><p>“May I? Look around?” Jimmy gestured toward the bathroom. Darcy nodded, momentarily preoccupied with reshuffling what looked like letters in her nightstand. He opened the door; stepping inside, he felt a sickening searing pain and looked down at his right foot, which had been cut by a tiny shard of stray window glass. <em>Bollocks.</em></p><p>Hobbling backward and closing the bathroom door as calmly as he could, he called Darcy over, pointing at his foot and asking if there was a bandage nearby he could borrow. She shuddered a bit at the droplets of blood, but quickly regained her composure and retrieved a first-aid kit from a nearby shelf. Realizing she needed water and soap to clean the wound, she found a broom and dustpan, clearing as much as she could of the glass shards in the bathroom. Once disposed of, she filled a small basin of soap and water, and rinsed Jimmy’s foot as best as she could, as he sat on the edge of her queen-sized bed. Darcy then created a makeshift bandage out of gauze and medical tape, placing a couple of drops of Manuka honey on the tiny wound, to promote healing. The honey looked to be the lovechild of amber-like dark caramelized sugar and highly inauspicious book glue. <em>Surprisingly sweet though</em>, Jimmy thought, as he sneaked a drop of the substance from its container using his pinky finger.</p><p>“My apologies,” she said ruefully, after clearing away her medical supplies. “I had no idea the blast hit—if I knew, I would certainly have—” Jimmy placed a finger on her lips, momentarily silencing her.</p><p>“Just a scratch—I’ll be right as rain in a jiffy,” Jimmy said, making light of the situation. “See, I can walk on it already” he demonstrated to Darcy as much, standing up and walking a couple of paces back and forth. “I was caught off guard, is all.” Darcy looked immensely relieved, but still beckoned him to sit on the bed just in case.</p><p>“Even if your foot is fine, we can’t take the chance of going anywhere outside of this bedroom—the air raid, the bathroom, the rest of the flat…” Darcy silently beseeched Jimmy to realize the gravity of the situation.</p><p>Jimmy sat back down on the bed. “I’m intrigued though—how on earth did you get ahold of Manuka honey, especially in this wartime economy?”</p><p>“I came across an Australian beekeeper and tradesman on the Azores with too many honeycombs to take care of,” Darcy responded. “He had a particularly fertile season that year, so he was willing to take a bargain.”</p><p>“You are quite a woman of mystery, Darcy Valensi,” Jimmy murmured.</p><p>“As are you, Jimmy Westwell. As are you,” Darcy flashed a glimmer of a smile as she turned on the phonograph for a bit of much-needed slow jazz, as they cuddled together, long into the night.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Jimmy & Darcy: Letter to My Valentine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charmed CW characters belong to Charmed CW. Denis and Tera, Darcy, Della, and Dora Valensi are my imagination at work. Light research was conducted for context.</p><p>13 Jimmy &amp; Darcy: Letter to My Valentine</p><p>
  <em>Noon, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, July 29, 1941</em>
</p><p>It was just over a week-and-a-half later that Jimmy’s foot felt completely back to normal. He arose sleepily from the queen-sized bed without looking to his opposite side, and made his way to the kitchen, fully expecting to see Darcy hunched over as usual, working on her most recent composition while he made a brew of fresh Earl Grey tea for himself, and peppermint tea for her.</p><p>Instead, after searching each room thoroughly, Jimmy found Darcy tucked inside in her bedroom closet, finishing up a couple of handwritten letters, which she promptly sealed in a plain-looking envelope and placed in her nightstand drawer. He’d noticed that she had been doing this lately—disappearing for a bit, writing letters, discarding them, rewriting them again, staring into space, <em>possibly shedding a couple of tears at one point?</em>—and he had no idea what she was up to. Rather than badger her about such personal things that certainly did not concern him, he merely went up and kissed her on the forehead, which she most certainly reciprocated.</p><p>
  <em>11 pm, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, July 29, 1941</em>
</p><p>Shivering, Jimmy and Darcy entered the front entryway of the Mauve Flat helter-skelter; there had been a sudden torrential downpour in the several minutes it took for them to cross between the threshold of Tessera Nightclub and Darcy’s home, and both were soaked to the bone.</p><p>“We can clean your clothes in my bathroom sink,” said Darcy. Jimmy nodded, and they dashed through her bedroom to her bathroom door, opening it carefully, double (<em>and triple</em>)-checking for any lingering glass. Seeing none, Darcy turned on the shower tap to start a bath, and Jimmy began to remove his pinstriped shirt.</p><p>“My costume is utterly ruined though,” she complained. She wasn’t entirely accurate; her feathered boa scarf had certainly seen better days, and at least a few feathers had fallen out in their rush to her front door. Her dark flapper dress, however, likely only needed a good solid day on the radiator to dry before being ready for another performance; it had art-deco gold geometric designs, scalloped patterning, and glass-beaded trim, but all Jimmy could think about was how tightly it clung to her curvy body as steam gathered from the warm water nearby.</p><p>Darcy tugged the top of her outfit, but her back zipper was stuck on a strand of her hair. “Dammit!” she shrieked in frustration. Just then, Jimmy stepped close behind her, loosened her grip from the zipper, and methodically untied the stubborn strand, which resumed its natural coil instantaneously. He drew kisses down the back of her neck as he unzipped her, thrusting his growing erection. Darcy moaned ever so slightly, and spinning around, they began kissing with an unbridled fervor, unable to stop, until she remembered she’d turned the tap on earlier. <em>Shite. </em>They moved their kissing toward the bathtub as Darcy reached over to shut the faucet.</p><p>They tumbled into the water, causing large droplets to splash onto the floor. Darcy found herself straddling Jimmy and looking slyly into his now-smoldering eyes (<em>he nodded</em>), she mounted herself atop him, lowering herself to feel every inch of his alabaster skin slide ever-so-pleasurably into her. <em>Like a piece of her that had been missing all of her waking life. </em>Gasping together, they rocked slowly at first, tenuously caressing each other’s bodies softly, gently, with Jimmy biting Darcy’s neck and Darcy, in turn, tentatively introducing her finger into his wanting mouth to suck and nip. Jimmy licked one nipple and rubbed it gently with the tip of his thumb, then did so with the other of Darcy, this spontaneously mesmerizing, innately glamorous lady who had emerged seemingly out of nowhere and had chosen <em>him</em>, plain old Manchester born-and-bred Jimmy Westwell-<em>with-the-pinstripe-suit</em>, the actor from a vaguely notorious-<em>yet-too-mediocre-to-be-fully-notorious</em>, ne’er-do-well family, to be with during the summertime warpath chaos that enveloped their very lives.</p><p>Jimmy sensed that any woman he would ever meet after Darcy, if there ever were any (and there were certainly <em>plenty</em> of women in the whole of England), would sorely pale in comparison to her (<em>pun intended</em>, he thought to himself wryly). He intuited, in the deepest recesses of his heart, that he would never be so lucky to find such an enthrallingly clever, resourceful woman in his life after Darcy. <em>I’m utterly besotted</em>, he realized with an epiphanic shock.</p><p>Upon generating a steady rhythm, steadily escalating with each thrust, Jimmy’s arms grasped her ass even more tightly than before; he whispered in her ear “<em>soon</em>” and she dug into his arms with her nails, pushing him over the threshold, as he came, pulsating, rivulets, into her warmth.</p><p>
  <em>Bloody hell, I love her. </em>
</p><p><em>But is that such a bad thing?</em> <em>Maybe she and I could have a future—once she gets over this soothsayer business—assuming she’s still in one piece come August. Maybe, just maybe, I could propose to her. </em></p><p>
  <em>And maybe, just maybe, she might say yes…</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Jimmy & Darcy: The Final Dance and Proposal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charmed CW characters belong to Charmed CW. Denis and Tera, Darcy, Della, and Dora Valensi are my imagination at work. Light research was conducted for context.</p><p>14 Jimmy &amp; Darcy: The Final Dance and Proposal</p><p>
  <em>11 pm, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, July 29, 1941</em>
</p><p>Maybe, just maybe, I could propose to her. <em>And maybe, just maybe, she might say yes…</em></p><p>
  <em>7 am-Noon, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, July 30, 1941</em>
</p><p>Before the hour in which the telltale cloud of curls began rustling on the lavender-hued pillow next to his, Jimmy crept out of their bed, quietly donned his clothes, closed the bedroom door behind him without so much as a peep, and tiptoed toward the front door. Exiting the Mauve Flat, Jimmy snuck over to the Tessera Nightclub’s costume storeroom; as a seasonal stagehand, he had a copy of the closet key, and he decided that now was the best time to take advantage.</p><p> He opened the storeroom, quickly reading through the alphabetized and meticulously-categorized drawers, until he came to the “J” section. He pulled that category’s contents out onto a nearby carpenter’s table, choosing his wares, then putting the rest away where he had found them. Once he did so, he pulled out a pair of pliers, a blowtorch, and a magnifying glass he had found laying in the corner and commenced the task at hand, alternately squinting and comparing his handiwork with a loop of yarn he retrieved from his side pocket…</p><p>
  <em>11:30 pm, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, July 31, 1941</em>
</p><p>A steady stream of rain pelted the now-shuttered windows located to one side of the Mauve Flat, as they sat together on Darcy’s bed listening to her vinyl records. Most were electrically, almost farcically upbeat, juxtaposed against the abject terror happening just outside in the streets. Jimmy, after some time, thought a slower song might better match the inward ambiance countermanded with the solemnity he knew that Darcy was feeling. It was 30 minutes until the hour she knew was unavoidably looming. Jimmy plucked the 1937 theater production of “Babes In Arms” from the pile. Removing the record from its sleeve, he placed the disk on the phonograph to “My Funny Valentine,” beckoning her to dance with a single outstretched hand.</p><p>She accepted, draping her left hand over his right shoulder, half in repose, her stray tears mingling with his, their feet moving as if tracing out an invisible infinity sign on the bare wooden floor. Their cheeks touched, their eyes for a moment closed, as if to imagine a florid, utopian, modern wonderland filled with a multitude of sparkling tea lights overhead, pristine grass aplenty, perhaps a grey stone patio, far from the whistling bombs, the air raid sirens, the piercing screams, in which a love story such as theirs would be permitted to flourish and thrive surrounded by dearly cherished family and friends for the rest of their days.</p><p>
  <em>11:35 pm, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, July 31, 1941</em>
</p><p>As the music slowed and faded away, Darcy lifted her head from where it had lain on Jimmy’s shoulder, murmuring “I wish we had more time.”</p><p>“How about forever?” Jimmy uncovered a small box from his pocket, and as he knelt down to a disbelieving Darcy, asked her, “Darcy Madalena Valensi, my irrepressibly sparkling sprite of a jazz singer and partner-in-crime, will you do the honor of marrying me, a humble English thespian?”</p><p>The ring was a hammered silver circle containing three bezel-inlaid squarish quartz crystal stones; the two smaller side stones represented the past and the future, and the largest center stone stood for the present. Darcy gasped, then nodded, as he slid the delicate-yet-sturdy piece of jewelry onto her left ring finger. “I know it’s not the typical style, and I can get another one if you like—” Jimmy began, but Darcy cut him off.</p><p>“It’s <em>beautiful</em>, Jimmy,” she said, absolutely in awe. Once they finished kissing, Jimmy whirled her around, dipping her as if in the middle of a swing dance number, and she laughed, her halo of ringlets swaying breezily across her forehead.</p><p>Once the celebration had dissipated, Jimmy stated determinedly, “Darcy, whether your demise is tomorrow, next week, or years after—even if, for whatever reason, the horrors of war separate us—know that I will always find you; our love will conquer the very forces of death itself.”</p><p>“<em>Amor vincit omnia</em>. Love conquers all,” Darcy read the inscription Jimmy had carved into her ring.</p><p>“Exactly. <em>Amor vincit omnia.” </em>He kissed her forehead, as they hugged each other closely, waiting as steadfastly as one might for midnight to approach.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Jimmy & Darcy: The Darkest Hour & The Missive</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charmed CW characters belong to Charmed CW. Denis and Tera, Darcy, Della, and Dora Valensi are my imagination at work. Light research was conducted for context.</p><p>15 Jimmy &amp; Darcy: The Darkest Hour &amp; The Missive</p><p>
  <em>11:35 pm, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, July 31, 1941</em>
</p><p>“<em>Amor vincit omnia</em>. Love conquers all,” Darcy read the inscription Jimmy had carved into her ring.</p><p>“Exactly. <em>Amor vincit omnia.” </em>He kissed her forehead, as they hugged each other closely, waiting as steadfastly as one might for midnight to approach.</p><p>
  <em>Midnight, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, August 1, 1941</em>
</p><p>Darcy and Jimmy’s cheerful reverie was abruptly punctured by a sudden knock at the front door. Jimmy begged her to stay put—surely nothing good could possibly come at this hour—but Darcy insisted, after peeking through a crack in her bedroom door and noting the familiar black robes of none other than Elder Celeste gracing the entryway. <em>Maybe she has an important message for me</em>, she thought to herself.</p><p>Darcy left Jimmy in the bedroom, and closing the door, she made a path toward her front door when—</p><p>All of a sudden—</p><p>
  <em>A horrifying CRASH and reverberating shower of windowpane glass could be heard, followed by a sharp yelp of pain, echoing into the murky abyss. Jimmy sprang up from where he was on the bed, but it was impossible for him to walk in a solidly straight line. The earth trembled beneath Jimmy’s feet, and he balanced himself unsteadily, catching damask-hued tchotchkes that fell from the overhead shelves, depositing them back where they came. He imagined that if there was such a thing as the apocalypse, it had finally arrived at the Mauve Flat.</em>
</p><p>In the midst of the pandemonium, Jimmy remembered that he had somehow left his shoes just outside Darcy’s bedroom, having been distracted by all of yesterday’s happenings. He hurriedly yanked them on and ran toward the cry he heard moments earlier. “DARCY!” he bellowed with all his might. “DARCY!”</p><p>“<em>Over…over here</em>,” he heard a voice whisper faintly. Jimmy followed the voice carefully into the shadowed corner of the flat, which led to Darcy, covered in what resembled a Snow Queen’s blanket of icicles and snowdrifts, in the most theatrically exquisite and terrible way. A closer look revealed a grievous wound puncturing Darcy’s abdomen, rendering her immobile. Jimmy, terrified beyond belief, nevertheless implicitly sensed that Darcy wanted to tell him something important, so he placed his ear toward her moving mouth, detecting its motion, its fluidity, remembering the warmth of her feathery kisses upon his cheek, knowing that soon, she would be no more, his tears involuntarily staining his cheek, and hers. “<em>Important nightstand envelope. Yours.” </em>He nodded, understanding that she wanted him to have something of hers. Seconds passed by, air raid sirens now fully flashing and screaming into the darkness, akin to a perverse stop-motion animation.</p><p>“<em>My valentine</em>,” Jimmy murmured, cradling her in his arms, as blood seeped from the savage wound, saturating the folds of her pleated white nightdress. He made as if to leave to gather Darcy’s first aid kit from under her bed, but she shook her head; she knew it would be of no use. It felt as though time had slowed down—Jimmy paid attention to every part of Darcy’s face, memorizing her contours, cheekbones and smile, her arching eyebrows. He deeply regretted not having taken a single photo of her during the entire time they had spent together at the Mauve Flat.</p><p>The minutes ticked by, and the shrieks of frightened children in the night, parents, grandparents, entire blocks were apparent to everyone but Jimmy, whose sole undivided focus was his dear, darling Darcy.</p><p>Summoning all of her remaining strength, Darcy looked Jimmy in the eye. “<em>Amor vincit omnia” </em>and with this final whisper, Darcy’s soul departed her body.</p><p>
  <em>6 am, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, August 1, 1941</em>
</p><p><em>Dawn was breaking</em>. Jimmy had lost all concept of time, having stayed all night holding vigil at Darcy’s side, even though her spirit had long since departed. Frozen in shock, and overcome by his emotions, he managed to cover her body, beautiful even in death, with a plum drapery, placing her regal-like form on the chaise sofa nearby.</p><p>Once he did that, he slowly made his way to her bedroom to retrieve the broom and dustpan, then commenced cleaning the floor of what he tried telling himself were shards of ice. <em>Ice after a freak snowstorm</em>. It was all he could do to not break down sobbing, <em>every</em> continuous second, of <em>every</em> minute, of <em>every</em> single hour. He tried to imagine for a moment, that maybe this all was in his imagination—that really, he <em>had </em>been in the middle of snowy weather in a purple-crested forest of unusual trees, with shards of ice drifting downward off of an adjoining cozy cottage, and that his fiancée Darcy was waiting for him inside with a cup of hot Earl Grey tea. <em>But he knew better</em>.</p><p>
  <em>6:30 am, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, August 1, 1941</em>
</p><p>Jimmy, remembering Darcy’s missive, proceeded to her nightstand drawer, where he found an envelope addressed to himself.</p><p>Curious, he opened it. The letter read as follows:</p><p>-----------------</p><p>
  <em>Dear Jimmy,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The past few weeks have been the most amazingly enthralling, and you have made me the happiest I can ever remember. I so wish we could have had more sunrises, sunsets, weeks, months, years, decades together, but my time has come.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I have a favor to ask—please bring Matias home. You will judge me, I am sure, for society has all but done that. But I had no choice in any part of the matter, and I had to do what was best for him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your Val(entine) forever and always,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Darcy</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Matias: Greenfield House Convent, Billinge, St Helen's, Manchester, England, UK</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Home: Dora and Della Valensi (next of kin), Epicenter Pico, No.22, Azores Island</em>
</p><p>------------------</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Who was Matias?</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Jimmy & Darcy: Meeting Matias & The Sarcana</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charmed CW characters belong to Charmed CW. Denis and Tera, Darcy, Della, and Dora Valensi are my imagination at work. Light research was conducted for context.</p><p>16 Jimmy &amp; Darcy: Meeting Matias &amp; The Sarcana</p><p>
  <em>6:30 am, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, August 1, 1941</em>
</p><p>Jimmy reread the letter, and the listed addresses. <em>Why on earth did Darcy need a convent for? </em>He surmised that she had a treasured object of a rather delicate nature there—or maybe an urgent hidden message she was guarding, coded in the word “<em>Matias”</em>—perhaps both—that needed delivery to her sisters, of whom she said she had been quite close with. Jimmy thought that visiting the convent in person would be the key in figuring this all out.</p><p>
  <em>Matias: Greenfield House Convent, Billinge, St Helen's, Manchester, England, UK</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Home: Dora and Della Valensi (next of kin), Epicenter Pico, No.22, Azores Island</em>
</p><p>He turned the page around to see if there were any additional instructions.</p><p>
  <em>              Toss the blue marble for my sisters</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              Toss the black marble to return</em>
</p><p>Jimmy rummaged around the drawer, coming out empty. An idea hit him, and he removed the drawer from its nightstand, shaking it all the while. His wrist bone knocked a hidden lever snaked around the polished frame, and a secret compartment popped out of its own accord, revealing the two marbles—one of the brightest blue, the other as dark as the finest polished jet. After spending a few seconds examining these and turning them about in his outstretched, slightly shaking hand, Jimmy stowed them in his pocket, checking beforehand that there were no worn patches or holes that could cause them to slip away, unseen.</p><p>Jimmy reexamined the letter, bringing it with him as he dressed and made for the front door. <em>Greenfield House Convent. Greenfield Convent. Greenfield.</em> It sounded quite familiar. He recalled a large and stately dark mansion-like building some blocks away—it was <em>Green</em>-something and was on Carr Mill Road past the Chadwick Green neighborhood he had been raised near as a child. The more he thought of it, he was increasingly sure that <em>had</em> to be the place. It looked positively indestructible, which certainly counted for something in a war-ravaged place like this. Jimmy recalled passing it as a small child on his afternoon walks with a surly caretaker, who had casually remarked that if he didn’t behave himself, he would be sent there and served bland porridge for the rest of his days while shackled to the cobblestone floor. (<em>He wasn’t too fond of said caretaker, </em>as he recalled; amiable childcare providers were certainly hard to come by in the 1920s, and he was fairly sure not much had changed since then, barring extreme institutional reform.)</p><p>
  <em>7 am, Oldham, Greater Manchester, Undetermined Countryside, August 1, 1941</em>
</p><p>Jimmy folded the letter and slipped it into the pocket containing the two precious marbles and set off for the convent that had haunted him in his childhood nightmares of yore. He cleared three blocks, making a steep right turn that took him off the main street road and into the verdant, wild remnants of the D’Urbervillian countryside. Jimmy noticed a bevy of gnarled trees, ten times taller than any house, swaying in an invisible midsummer rhythm and inhabited by as many crows, as he made his way through the rocky footpath to the forbidding building that seemed to grow intimidatingly larger every step he took.</p><p>No sooner had Jimmy’s feet graced a centimeter’s breadth of the doormat, than the door opened to reveal a young golden-haired lady veiled in Spanish-style black laced mourning robes. He thought this a bit odd, since he had grown up seeing middle-aged nuns walking about the streets in long habits and white-tipped hats. <em>What kind of an institution was this?</em></p><p>Unsure of what to do, Jimmy reverted to customary social graces, and introduced himself to the woman. She nodded in response. “I am Fiona Callahan,” she said—“former ward, now junior warden of the convent.” Fiona gestured for Jimmy to enter the building.</p><p>
  <em>7:20 am, Oldham, Greater Manchester, Greenfield House Convent, August 1, 1941</em>
</p><p>“<em>Erm—</em>has this convent changed management?” Jimmy inquired delicately, upon stepping in and looking around the lobby, whose grey stone walls and intricately carved swords on display suggested an Arthurian theme. His childhood caretaker’s stories of simple living and plain frocks somehow did not match the scene before his eyes.</p><p> “Yes, some time ago. It’s now run by the Sisters of Arcana, known in certain circles as the Sarcana,” Fiona stated matter-of-factly. “Into the parlor, shall we?” She gestured to her left as they entered another somewhat identically decorated room, though this chamber had what ominously appeared to be handcuffs dangling from the ceiling, and an odd assortment of books covering everything from crow tattoos to modern-era uses for venomous poison. “Do sit,” Fiona gestured at the nearby chair.</p><p>“I-I’m fine, really” said Jimmy. “I am pressed for time, and I have come for an urgent matter. A dear, beloved”…<em>he wasn’t sure how much he should reveal</em>…”…friend of mine has been killed by a passing bomb, and her dying wish,” Jimmy fished the letter out of his pocket “was that I bring Matias home, home being, I assume, the Azores Islands.” Fiona took the letter from his hand, as Jimmy examined her carefully to see if she showed any emotion due to the unhappy circumstances.</p><p>Fiona carefully manipulated the letter, running a well-manicured index finger from its top to the very bottom, repeating the process once she turned the page over, as if determining the authentication of the missive through otherworldly means. Upon its completion, she gave a quick start, her eyes filling with tears that she took no pains to hide.</p><p>“<em>She was truly lovely,” </em>Fiona murmured to herself. Seconds passed, then a couple of minutes. Realizing where she was, she cleared her throat hastily, wiped her tears, and regained her composure. Meeting Jimmy’s eyes, she pushed a stone protruding from the wall, revealing a secret corridor that blended into the parlor’s dense walls. “Follow me,” Fiona beckoned. And so he did. The corridor’s interior seemed like a shoddy prison detention center, or a city-run poor man’s insane asylum—<em>why had Darcy instructed him to come here? And who, or what, exactly, was he bringing home?</em></p><p>Fiona turned a corner, opening the door with an ornate key. As they walked inside, the darkened scenery changed to what resembled…<em>a nursery. </em>There was a single octagonal window, peeling floral wallpaper (<em>he noticed bluebells that matched Darcy’s dress)</em>, a Tiffany twin-sized bed, and a cradle covered in silky gauze from its top to the very bottom.</p><p>Opening the gossamer cover, Fiona scooped a wriggling infant from the cradle.</p><p>“Jimmy, meet Matias.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Jimmy & Darcy: Cut from the Same Cloth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charmed CW characters belong to Charmed CW. Denis and Tera, Darcy, Della, and Dora Valensi are my imagination at work. Light research was conducted for context.</p><p>17 Jimmy &amp; Darcy: Cut from the Same Cloth</p><p>
  <em>7:20-7:50 am, Oldham, Greater Manchester, Greenfield House Convent then Undetermined Countryside, August 1, 1941</em>
</p><p>Opening the gossamer cover, Fiona scooped a wriggling infant from the cradle.</p><p>“Jimmy, meet Matias.”</p><p>Jimmy stared at them in shock. <em>Darcy had been pregnant, and had birthed a child of her own without once telling him? </em>A small part of him felt betrayed, that she did not trust him with this secret while she was alive. Brushing that thought aside, it was possible she had her reasons—maybe the parentage was scandalous, she was fleeing an unsavory oppressor from the Azores, or…his mind raced with theories, each more improbable than the next. And why would she have left her darling child <em>here</em>, in a dungeon, of all places?</p><p>For a moment, he stepped out of his psyche and objectively evaluated the situation. A jazz singer he had known all of mere weeks had perished from a fatal wartime injury. <em>Fact. </em>Said woman had to have been a single mother (again, <em>fact</em>). Subjectively, he knew, deep down, that there had been no other man in Darcy’s life that could have matched what they had, and she had told him she legitimately feared for her life in the Azores.</p><p>Jimmy knew from having been raised near Greenfield, that being a single mother held an immense stigma in society; women were banished to institutions to have their babies, provide free scullery services, then forced to watch as their babies were adopted into the homes of wealthy childless couples. In contrast, Darcy was an independent woman, had the wits to work all on her own, and was talented enough to make her mark in the local music industry. A jazz club did have all sorts of patrons and alcoholic substances though, and thus did not seem like the proper place to safely raise a child.</p><p>Assuming Darcy came from magical means, perhaps she understood the risks of sending her baby to such a family. If Matias demonstrated any such leanings, the wrong intolerant sort of well-meaning family could forcibly put an end to what they would deem nonsense—which could lead him to being institutionalized for the rest of his earthly life.</p><p>
  <em>Before this child could talk, he was already in danger.</em>
</p><p>“Would you like to hold him?” Fiona asked softly.</p><p>“I’ve never held a baby before,” responded Jimmy, hesitating.</p><p>“There’s a first time for everything,” she replied. Jimmy swallowed hard as he nodded, receiving the bundle that held Matias. He uncovered a piece of the blanket, and examined the baby closely; Matias had a more sun-swept complexion than Darcy (<em>both beautiful in their own ways)</em>, with her familiar curly hair, alongside emerging dimples and (<em>he was startled at this finding</em>) strikingly lovely large, grey eyes, that looked as if their sagacity could see the contents of your very soul. If it hadn’t been for the fact he knew Darcy for less than a month’s time, he would have sworn on his mother’s grave that this child was biologically <em>his</em>.</p><p>“You are taking the child to his next of kin?” Fiona broke Jimmy’s train of thought.</p><p>“Oh—yes! I plan to.” Jimmy said.</p><p>“Well in that case—” Fiona looked around the room and poked her head through the dank corridor, looking to the left and right. “<em>Take him. Now,” </em>she whispered, quickly ushering them out of the nursery, which Jimmy belatedly noticed had been completely devoid of children’s toys or books. Jimmy soon found himself nearly shoved out of the front door, Matias in his arms (<em>now asleep)</em>, as if Fiona were trying to help the baby escape unnoticed from the rest of the Sarcana.</p><p>Not that he blamed Fiona at all. In Jimmy’s view, the Sarcana seemed altogether a shady lot. He looked past what they called a nursery and thought the surroundings worse than even the poorest state school in all of England. <em>Handcuffs on the ceiling? Books on venom? This was not the right place for Darcy’s flesh and blood, he knew with utmost certainty.</em></p><p>With Matias in his arms, Jimmy traversed the lush countryside once more, making his way through several blocks back to Darcy’s flat, which felt like the whole of eternity to accomplish. Matias barely stirred.</p><p>
  <em>8:30 am, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, August 1, 1941</em>
</p><p>Back at the Mauve Flat, Jimmy placed Matias down gently on the bed (surrounded by blooms of tapestry to avoid his wandering off) and proceeded to the bathroom to wash his own bedraggled and gloomy face. Checking that Matias was safely kept on the bed, Jimmy stepped into the kitchen and after some rummaging in a cupboard, found some powdered milk, and stirred the contents together to create something hopefully edible for Matias, should he become hungry. He placed the stirred milk into a metal thermos, which went into his canvas satchel. Jimmy pulled out Darcy’s letter from his pocket, rereading the traveling-by-marble instructions.</p><p><em>Somehow, </em>Jimmy surmised, <em>the act of tossing the marble would give access to Darcy’s sisters. The black marble “return” wording makes it sound as though Darcy wants us to make a physical journey. </em>Truth be told, trying to wrap his mind around this made his brain hurt. He took the marbles out of his pocket, rolling them around in one hand; upon closer evaluation, he noticed that the blue marble’s insides were swirling continuously, in a pattern mimicking cirrus clouds on a sunny day.</p><p>
  <em>8:50 am, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, August 1, 1941</em>
</p><p>Suspending all disbelief, Jimmy wondered if tossing the marble would cause an entryway to form, leading to the Azores Islands. If that were the case, it would require rapid travel through time and space. Thinking of Matias, he wondered about just how safe such travel was for a tiny, not-yet-a-year-old baby. He knew from his grade school science courses that objects could be ripped apart from each other when high velocity became a known factor. Jimmy needed a way to keep Matias close to him, just in case. <em>Cloth? Maybe. A shirt? Could rip apart. What then? </em>And then his gaze fell to the flowing sitting room tapestries and curtains, now askew due to yesterday’s bombing.</p><p>Jimmy used one of the plum-colored brocades to create a makeshift sling to carry Matias, folding and knotting as one of his cousins had taught him years earlier. Having done so, Jimmy gathered the tapestry containing Darcy’s body, the sling containing Matias, the canvas satchel and—</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, from where he stood next to the chaise sofa, he spotted a hooded figure step through the shattered glass window and into the sitting room.</p><p>
  <em>It was none other than Elder Celeste.</em>
</p><p>“Give me the baby—he belongs with the Sarcana.” snipped Celeste, without so much as a <em>hello</em>. She strode forward, but still remained a sensible six feet of distance apart. Jimmy found her greeting shockingly rude but was too polite to say so. Rather, he mentally cursed himself for neglecting to board the window up with plywood. There simply had not been any time.</p><p>Some seconds later, seeing no movement forward from Jimmy, Celeste gesticulated impatiently. “That is his destiny, he is to be trained in the ways and means of their art!” Something in Jimmy snapped. Perhaps it was a result of seeing the Sarcana’s handcuffs on the ceiling. Or the unpleasant arguments he had years ago with his father about refusing to purloin an old lady’s purse. Or, even further, the cousins who repeatedly jeered at his fledgling acting career. <em>Enough was enough. </em>Despite, or because of his own grim upbringing, Jimmy knew that it was morally wrong (not to mention,<em> highly </em>unethical<em>)</em> to use a child for indentured labor, and later down the line, weaponization.</p><p>“<em>Like hell he is</em>” Jimmy replied, his eyes blazing.</p><p>“What instructions did Darcy give?” asked Celeste, now looking at him, irritated yet intrigued at his gumption.</p><p>“None that concern you.” And with that, Jimmy tossed the blue marble, holding Darcy’s wrapped body, with Matias wrapped around him in a sling with the canvas bag, as he jumped through the emerging portal, which rapidly closed behind him with a quiet <em>pop</em>.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Jimmy & Darcy: Matias versus Proto</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charmed CW characters belong to Charmed CW. Denis and Tera, Darcy, Della, and Dora Valensi are my imagination at work. Light research was conducted for context.</p><p>18 Jimmy &amp; Darcy: Matias versus Proto</p><p>
  <em>7:51 am Azores time, Madalena Village, Azores, Doorstep of Epicenter Pico No. 22, August 1, 1941</em>
</p><p>Jimmy found himself facing the front doorstep of Epicenter Pico No. 22, according to the number tacked onto the dwelling and the street sign some steps away near a set of robust, rustling palm trees. About to knock, he stopped—</p><p>And looked at <em>who</em> he was carrying, and just <em>how</em> bizarre it must look to the average bystander. Though there were none at this particular hour (<em>thank heavens</em>), Jimmy imagined that they would be quite horrified to see a scruffy, questionable English man carrying a deceased Azorian beauty in a tapestry, with her equally lovely baby nestled against his chest with a bit of torn patterned curtain. One might venture to say it looked incriminating, even. <em>INTERPOL would surely have a field day, that much was possible</em>, Jimmy worried to himself. Nothing in his improvisational theatre training had ever prepared him for this dreadful moment.</p><p>Jimmy briefly considered leaving Darcy and Matias on the doorstep, ringing the bell, and fleeing using the black marble so that the remaining two Valensi sisters, Dora and Della, would see neither hide nor hair of him. Darcy left their home awhile ago, and here he was, having the audacity to bring her deceased body back with a baby the sisters may or may not have known of. It seemed like the worst possible homecoming he could ever imagine. <em>Depending on the nature of said sisters, his entire familial line could be cursed into entirety</em>, he thought to himself. <em>From how things looked right now, I wouldn’t blame them.</em></p><p>But Jimmy remembered a promise he had made to himself when he first met Darcy—to take this chance at redemption to be a better man—a man of his word.</p><p>So. Gathering his courage—</p><p>
  <em>He knocked.</em>
</p><p>It wasn’t but a second later that the door slowly creaked open, revealing a small girl with very long red hair, who, squinting in the brightening tropical sunlight, smiled up at him. “Olá,” she said courteously.</p><p>“Er—hello, is—is your mum home?” Jimmy inquired politely, hoping that the tapestry was as discreetly wrapped as he needed it to be.</p><p>“Você fala português?” The precocious girl seemed to be asking if Jimmy spoke Portuguese, the national language of the Azores. Jimmy shook his head, and gently repeated the question; the girl gestured for him to wait a moment and ran away to find an adult. <em>Jimmy prayed in the name of all that was good and holy that the little girl wasn’t Dora or Della Valensi. He couldn’t stand to break a child’s heart like this. Not now, not ever.</em></p><p>Another minute passed by, and Jimmy saw the girl return holding the hands of two women who he presumed were Darcy’s sisters, due to their distinct resemblance. Taking one look at Jimmy’s face, one of them bade the girl to leave and go play, and so the girl did, skipping through the home and into the back garden.</p><p>“It’s happened, hasn’t it?” said one. Jimmy nodded mutely.</p><p>“You’d best come inside,” said the other. Jimmy followed the two women into the home, tapestry, brocade, Matias and all, and closed the door.</p><p>
  <em>8 am, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 22, August 1, 1941</em>
</p><p>Once Jimmy was seated in the living room across from Dora and Della, he gave them the letter that Darcy had left for him in her nightstand. They, like Fiona, used a finger to scan the letter for its authenticity, and when finished, they looked toward him as if waiting for him to speak.</p><p>Jimmy attempted to speak clearly and to leave as much emotion out as he could, as Darcy’s sisters deserved to know precisely what happened. “My name is James Westwell, though folks call me Jimmy. I knew Darcy all of three weeks; she had asked me to keep an eye on her—something about an Azorian soothsayer. A bomb fell during the airstrikes in Manchester—I begged her not to leave her room, but she thought she saw Celeste. Darcy left a letter instructing me to pick Matias up from a convent. I cleaned up the glass and wrapped Darcy in the dark purple tapestry material she had. Then, after picking Matias up from the convent (<em>handcuffs on the ceiling</em>, I was frightened for his life), arrived back to Darcy’s flat and placed him in a sling, for safety. Just before arriving here, Celeste tried to stop me, wondering if it was against Darcy’s wishes, I think.”</p><p>At this point, Matias began stirring, and one of the two women reached out to hold Matias, whispering softly into his ear. The other left the room, to return shortly afterward with a small bottle of fresh milk to feed the baby.</p><p>“You <em>must</em> believe me, I had <em>no</em> idea about Matias; I only found out today. If I had known sooner I would have taken him from the convent much earlier. But most of all”—Jimmy’s voice wavered—“I am so, <em>so </em>sorry that I could not bring Darcy back alive. I loved her those precious weeks we had; we were engaged for not even a day. I wish it could have been me instead. <em>I’m so…so…sorry</em>,” he ended, and with that, Jimmy dissolved into tears, covering his face with his palms, not realizing the woman who had returned with the milk bottle had seated herself next to him.</p><p>
  <em>8:20 am, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 22, August 1, 1941</em>
</p><p>After several minutes in which Jimmy slowly regained his composure, she finally spoke. “Jimmy—<em>can I call you Jimmy?” </em>she asked softly. Jimmy nodded. “I’m Della. Dora’s the one holding Matias.” Dora nodded at Jimmy, who nodded back. Della appeared to be looking at him rather transfixed, as though she were reading a virtual rolodex of his innermost thoughts. “We don’t blame you a bit for Darcy’s death; we knew this day would come, and soon. And it is clear that you and Darcy loved each other very much. You protected her from dying alone, and you rescued her son from the Sarcana, who would have weaponized Matias.”</p><p>“W-weaponized?” asked Jimmy, puzzled. “In what sense?”</p><p>“Darcy, in her fear of the soothsayer’s prophecy, fled to Manchester to pursue jazz, but was forced to make a deal with the Sarcana to protect her baby. She was under the impression that it would be for the short-term, while she established herself and put her affairs in order, but the Sarcana conspired to turn Matias into what they call “The Proto-Source,” or ‘Proto,’” said Della. “Darcy realized too late that she had misplaced her trust in the Sarcana; the protection spells around Greenfield Convent were such that none of Matias’ maternal line could physically remove him, so he risked becoming a child warlock of the court. That way, supreme guardianship would revert to the Sarcana, likely meaning that the child would never set foot in the Azores ever again.”</p><p>“<em>Blimey.” </em>Jimmy had no idea that Darcy had suffered so; this explained the flurry of letters and those times she had hidden in her bedroom closet. She had been writing letters to her sisters all along. He wished he could go back in time to that moment and hug her—and tell her that he was making things right, and that her son, Matias, was going to be ok. However, he had no idea what some of the words Della used even meant.</p><p>“So, this Source,” said Jimmy, hesitating. “What was this Source exactly? And what did the Sarcana mean by Proto?”</p><p>This time, it was Dora who spoke. “The Source of All Evil. In the universe. The Sarcana wanted to create a rebellious alternative Source of their own, and they wanted to house this essence in little Matias over here.”</p><p>“No!” exclaimed Jimmy, aghast. The sisters nodded. “We were horrified when Darcy told us,” Dora stated. “Never in our lives as healers did we imagine a group that would so turn against us. If created, Proto could have been pure, unbridled energy devouring itself and destroying everything in its path; such an entity does not have the trained capacity to sort out good and evil; just power and even more corruptible power. Our prior international safeguarding alliances meant nothing to them, apparently. In short,” she looked directly at Jimmy as she spoke, “you have saved so many more lives in the magical realm than you could <em>ever</em> imagine, Jimmy Westwell. We owe our lives to you, and we are forever in your debt.”</p><p>They paused, which was enough time for Jimmy to ask, “What happens next?”</p><p>Della answered, “A funeral today, for our dear sister Darcy Madalena Valensi.” Jimmy nodded.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Jimmy & Darcy: A Lavender Funeral</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charmed CW characters belong to Charmed CW. Denis and Tera, Darcy, Della, and Dora Valensi are my imagination at work. Light research was conducted for context.</p>
<p>19 Jimmy &amp; Darcy: A Lavender Funeral</p>
<p>
  <em>9 am, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 22, Garden &amp; Family Cemetery, August 1, 1941</em>
</p>
<p>Jimmy, Dora, and Della rose and, picking up Darcy’s body, proceeded to the back garden (<em>Morgana was busy sniffing a couple of plumerias and paid them no heed</em>), then further up a path hidden by a several-foot-high thicket of tropical lavender rhododendrons. <em>The family cemetery. </em>Jimmy noticed that a fresh grave had already been dug, with Darcy’s name and birthdate on the headstone. They gently laid her in a simple wooden casket, placed it six feet into the ground, and covered it with topsoil that had gathered in a pile next to them. Jimmy sensed that the funeral rites were faster than normal due to the need for Darcy’s privacy and Matias’ safety on the island.</p>
<p>The next half hour was a blur. Dora and Della said a few words that sounded vaguely like prayer. When they asked if Jimmy wanted to say anything, he mentioned that he wrote song lyrics in memory of Darcy. They asked if they could hear it, and Jimmy acquiesced, with the caveat that he was extraordinarily amateurish, and nowhere near as gifted as their sister. Dora, Della, and Jimmy had a small laugh over that, followed by silence, except for the chirping bullfinches and the buzzing bees overhead.</p>
<p>“Darcy,” Jimmy began, “these are the song lyrics I was working on the other day…as I told your sisters, they’re not as cool or as sultry or as snazzy as yours, but they come from the heart, and my heart is true.” He sang the stanzas with a tune he improvised himself, that sounded similar to the songs they had danced to in the past.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>“We’ll meet again in the summer of May </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I’ll see your silhouette somehow, someday.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You’ll see my furtive glance,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And darling we’ll take that second chance.</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>Or find me in the forest evergreen, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>On a tree I’ll jauntily lean. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Don’t ask me why;</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Just darling, please don’t cry.</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>A Victorian house beckons us near,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>As our love once more will be crystal clear.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It’ll be an auspicious sign;</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>We’ll toast with Sauvignon wine,</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>Forever, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>My always,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>My valentine.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>Jimmy finished singing. “That was an exquisite send-off,” Dora and Della whispered, and he could see tears falling from their cheeks.</p>
<p>
  <em>10 am, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 22, Kitchen, August 1, 1941</em>
</p>
<p>Some time went by for reflection, after which the three (plus Matias) returned to the back garden and into the kitchen, where Morgana was waiting for them with freshly-cut plumeria flowers in a tiny glass vase.</p>
<p>“We will care for Matias as though he were our own son.” Dora and Della told Jimmy, as if reading his mind. “We are healers and he will be well looked after, in body, mind, and spirit; our neighbor’s daughter Morgana will be like a big sister to him, won’t you Morgana?” Morgana nodded her head up and down solemnly; the girl couldn’t have been more than four years old. Jimmy watched in the corner of his eye as Della pulled a large, ancient book off a nearby bookshelf.</p>
<p>“Does Matias have a middle name?” asked Della.</p>
<p>“Not that I know of,” replied Jimmy. Dora shot Della a knowing look, and Della wrote Matias’ name in the Valensi family records book. The group crowded over Della to watch her calligraphic script form individual letters, then words.</p>
<p>“Westwell,” Della said. “His middle name will be Westwell. You saved his life, after all—”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Jimmy whispered, tearing up.</p>
<p>
  <em>10:30 am, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 22, Doorstep, August 1, 1941</em>
</p>
<p>Jimmy bade farewell to Della, Dora, and Morgana, and kissed Matias’ forehead, silently hoping that one day, he would be able to see Matias again, and perhaps visit Darcy’s grave in the Azores once the war was over. He tossed the black marble in the air, and jumped through the portal, transporting him to the Mauve Flat.</p>
<p>
  <em>11:35 am GMT, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, August 1, 1941</em>
</p>
<p>Jimmy landed in Darcy’s bedroom closet in the Mauve Flat with a small <em>bang</em> and walked to the kitchen to fix himself a cup of Earl Grey tea.</p>
<p>Oddly enough, <em>there was already a cup waiting for him</em>.</p>
<p>Celeste stepped out of the kitchen’s shadows, her dark robes trailing after her like plumes of smoke. “We need to talk.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Jimmy & Darcy: Conscience & Carrot Cake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charmed CW characters belong to Charmed CW. Denis and Tera, Darcy, Della, and Dora Valensi are my imagination at work. Light research was conducted for context.</p><p>20 Jimmy &amp; Darcy: Conscience &amp; Carrot Cake</p><p>
  <em>11:35 am GMT, Oldham, Greater Manchester, The Mauve Flat, August 1, 1941</em>
</p><p>Jimmy landed in Darcy’s bedroom closet in the Mauve Flat with a small <em>bang</em> and walked to the kitchen to fix himself a cup of Earl Grey tea.</p><p>Oddly enough, <em>there was already a cup waiting for him</em>.</p><p>Celeste stepped out of the kitchen’s shadows. “We need to talk.”</p><p>Jimmy backed away toward the chaise sofa uncertainly, looking over his shoulder for a large and heavy lamppost to defend himself with. Celeste, rolling her eyes, impatiently motioned him over to the kitchen with a butter knife she’d been holding<em>. </em>“I’m not the enemy here, Jimmy.”</p><p>Recovering from the unwelcome surprise, Jimmy found his voice at last. “First, can you please put the knife down? I can’t concentrate with you waving that thing in my face.”</p><p>“Well,” groused Celeste. “I was going to slice up a bit of the carrot cake to go with that tea, but if you’d really rather just faint from hunger—”</p><p>“<em>Fine.” </em>Jimmy marched into the kitchen and sat down at the table, sipping the Earl Grey tea that Celeste had prepared for him. <em>Hm, not bad, </em>he thought to himself. The other part of him thought it entirely possible that Celeste was drugging him or poisoning him, but he was so emotionally wrung out that he could have cared less.</p><p>“Eat.” Celeste sat across from him and shoved a small plate of daintily-sliced carrot cake in his general direction. She picked up and ate a piece, dabbing the crumbs from her mouth with the sleeve of her collar; Jimmy took a couple of nibbles from his morsel.</p><p>After several minutes of tea-sipping and cake chewing, Celeste spoke her mind. “Jimmy, taking Matias away from the Sarcana was not part of the plan. Tampering with fate can be a very dangerous thing.” Jimmy made as if to speak, but Celeste put her hand up; she wasn’t finished. “You can’t let your feelings get in the way of your Good Samaritan actions toward others.”</p><p>“I couldn’t let Matias be raised in that dungeon” Jimmy replied. He felt an indelible bond with this innocent creature; he found it eerily comforting that the baby’s eyes so matched his own, and that the boy had similar-hued ringlets of hair as that of Darcy. If not for the theory of relativity, Jimmy would have sworn Matias was his. He secretly wished that he could have kept Matias for himself and raised him on his own. He knew, however, that besides going against Darcy’s express wishes, a bomb-infested Europe was a terribly dangerous place to raise a young child. <em>And with what money?</em> Jimmy had been on hiatus until September, and whatever little he made as a stagehand was nowhere near enough to feed, clothe, and educate another human. <em>It was for the best</em>, he told himself resignedly.</p><p>“I realize that.” Celeste took a sip of her own cup of tea. “But back where I’m from, we operate like well-oiled machinery, taking the greater good into consideration. It’s a utilitarian perspective, really. I recommend it. That having been said, new intelligence I’ve received informs me that you did do a great deal to stop the Sarcana in its tracks. The magical community thanks you heartily.”</p><p>“I did it for Darcy,” Jimmy muttered.</p><p>“I know you did, Jimmy,” Celeste responded. “Going back to the whole ‘tampering with fate’ though—” she looked at him pointedly. His eyes were bloodshot from having wept for so many hours of the day, his hair was tangled, and he had just lost his fiancée and what could have been his son, in less than 24 hours. <em>And this was only day one. </em>“What do you plan to do now?”</p><p>“I—I dunno. Go back to the theatre next month and perform more, I guess. Visit Darcy’s grave whenever this blasted war ends. See Matias. Get to know Dora, Della, and little Morgana, the red-haired girl.”</p><p>Celeste shook her head. “See here, Jimmy, you were supposed to guard and act as companion for Darcy until her expected death. <em>Which you did, admirably</em>. However, you were <em>not</em> supposed to discover the Sarcana’s local convent stronghold, nor meet Darcy’s sisters on the islands. The fabric of time could be ripped irreparably, creating time loops of which you would not even <em>begin </em>to comprehend.”</p><p>“Meaning, I saw too much?” Jimmy asked. Celeste nodded.</p><p>“Your duty to Darcy and Matias is complete,” she declared. Jimmy would have fought back, if Darcy were still alive and he knew they had a future. But Darcy was gone, and so was Matias for awhile, and he had lost so much in such short a time.</p><p>“Are you going to kill me, Celeste?” he figured it was no use beating around the bush.</p><p>Celeste chuckled wryly to herself. “Child, you have given me so much work in the way of damage control, but you are <em>not</em> dying today. In fact,” she paused, as if a lightbulb moment appeared before her, “<em>I might find some use for you yet</em>.”</p><p>With that, Celeste whispered a few words, that went something like this:</p><p>
  <em>Make your feeling memories disappear; let your past reappear. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Walk on home and find a wife; forget two souls but gain a life.</em>
</p><p>As soon as Celeste had uttered those words, Jimmy vanished into thin air, transported back to his own flat some distance away in the same town. If all had gone right, her charm would have wiped Jimmy’s memory completely clean of Darcy and Matias. <em>And well, if it had not, it was certainly not her problem anymore</em>. Celeste surveyed the Mauve Flat with hawk-like eyes; she needed to spruce up the place for the next incoming witch renter, who was due to appear in less than a fortnight. <em>The place was an utter mess.</em></p><p>
  <em>1 pm, Oldham, Greater Manchester, Jimmy’s Flat, August 1, 1941</em>
</p><p>Jimmy woke up with a start in his flat. He had had the most wonderful dream, but upon waking, simply was not able to remember it at all. <em>He hated when that happened</em>. Yawning, he stumbled out of bed and made for the kitchen to fix himself some porridge. For whatever reason, though he knew he happily dreamt, he woke up feeling depressed and empty, as though <em>someone </em>or <em>something </em>were desperately missing from his lonely, ordinary life.</p><p>While boiling the requisite oats, Jimmy accidentally dropped his stainless-steel spoon on the floor. Picking it up, he noticed a peculiar reflection from it, realizing it was his foot. Lifting a toe, he spotted a tiny scar that looked as though it had taken two weeks to heal, but for the life of him, he was unable to recall where or how he had gotten that injury. <em>I probably stepped on a broken pint glass in a pub</em>, he thought to himself. <em>Clumsy oaf</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Oldham, Greater Manchester, September 1941-August 1957</em>
</p><p>During the next decade-and-a-half, life became increasingly straightforward and yet, in some ways, more unpleasant than before. Due to Celeste’s memory wipe of Jimmy that might have gone too far, he forgot that he had a minor congenital heart condition and was successfully drafted into the army this time around. <em>It was also possible that the charm could have taught his heart ligaments to realign, but that was assuming quite a lot on Celeste’s cardiothoracic healing acumen</em>. It was more likely the former since Jimmy’s death occurred so much sooner (<em>three decades earlier</em>) than anyone would have predicted.</p><p>In September 1941, Jimmy’s drinking buddy fixed him up on a blind date with his younger cousin Clara. Jimmy knew it was fruitless to dwell on past dreams, daydreams, and ideals of what his life could have been, so he reluctantly went ahead and married her. Their apathetic, unremarkable union produced one son, an altogether sweet-tempered boy named Carter. Though Jimmy tried as hard as he might, he knew that his heart was not fully invested in being the most attentive husband and doting father. He always felt as though he was searching bars, pubs, and other Manchester streets but could never remember <em>why</em> exactly. At several points in their marriage, Clara accused Jimmy of being a terrible husband that was never around in the evenings to spend time with their child; deep down, he knew that she was right.</p><p>To add insult to injury, Celeste’s memory charm affected more than Jimmy’s heart ligaments; the charm, living up to its language of removing “feeling,” had left him devoid of any realistic capacity of deep love toward another human being. This left him an empty shell of a man, finding solace in the most inappropriate of avenues, during the oddest hours of the night.</p><p>Jimmy Westwell, in short, lived up to his family name as a ne’er-do-well who always forgot birthdays, anniversaries, and other special occasions. He died alone in 1957.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Jimmy & Darcy: A Second Chance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charmed CW characters belong to Charmed CW. Denis and Tera, Darcy, Della, and Dora Valensi are my imagination at work. Light research was conducted for context.</p><p>21 Jimmy &amp; Darcy: A Second Chance</p><p>
  <em>Oldham, Greater Manchester, Two Days after Death, 1957</em>
</p><p>One unusually cold morning in 1957, Jimmy Westwell’s body was discovered just outside of the Tessera Nightclub, swiftly identified by the authorities, and brought back to the flat he had once shared with Clara and Carter. A quiet funeral was held shortly thereafter, attended only by two forlorn people, dressed entirely in black from head to toe. Celeste remained hidden a discreet distance away behind an oak tree, until the funeral attendees and hired pallbearers departed.</p><p>Just one day before, Celeste had obtained Clara’s explicit, handwritten permission for Jimmy’s body to be donated to the medical college branch of the University of Manchester for alcohol and toxicology studies, knowing full well exactly what would be happening instead.</p><p>
  <em>Midnight, Oldham, Greater Manchester, Three Days after Death, 1957</em>
</p><p>Hours later at midnight, Celeste and a team of other Elders exhumed Jimmy’s body, murmuring digging spells to expedite the process and avoid any run-ins with grave-robbers or the local police. After retrieval (and clean-up vis-à-vis replacement of the soil, courtesy of Celeste herself), Jimmy’s body was subsequently carried by the Elders and orbed to Castle Braith up north.</p><p>
  <em>8 am, Scotland, Castle Braith, Observatory Room, Three Days after Death, 1957</em>
</p><p>Jimmy’s body lay on the operating table, naked and vulnerable, surrounded by a cluster of aged Elders, all of whom began chanting in Latin. Their long, dark robes vaguely resembled those of monastic folk, simple in nature, but tailored ever-so-slightly to be distinguishable from such, if one looked close enough. The candles were lit, and the incense in full, glorious swing.</p><p>This was all well and good for all of the Elders, except for Celeste, of course, who had not expected Jimmy to drop dead three decades early. Furthermore, if Celeste had known the Elders were doing mystical open-soul surgery this early in the morning, she likely would have gone to sleep sooner the night before, instead of orbing to Tessera Nightclub. She massaged her head ruefully. <em>Had she really imbibed five absinthe shots in a row? </em>C<em>learly, she needed to work on her alcohol tolerance. </em>Celeste wove herself further into the back crowd of Elders, preferring to nurse her hangover without inhaling a lungful of frankincense.</p><p>And so the ritualistic performance continued.</p><p>
  <em>8:40 am, Scotland, Castle Braith, Observatory Room, Three Days after Death, 1957</em>
</p><p>Jimmy’s dark essence was gradually being extracted away from his body in a large, vaporized cloud that was ever-expanding. The tendrils of sheer human mischief and evil curled broadly, reaching for the high-ceilinged light fixtures that resembled wood chandeliers of the Renaissance era. <em>Rather apt, given that this was a rebirth of sorts</em>, Celeste mused to herself, as she joined in the chants that echoed across the ancient castle’s runic-inscribed walls.</p><p>
  <em>9 am, Scotland, Castle Braith, Observatory Room, Three Days after Death, 1957</em>
</p><p><em>Good lord, this ceremony takes forever, </em>Celeste thought, though still managing to keep a straight, somber face to appease the other Elders. Sixty minutes really felt like sixty years in a dark, damp place like this. Suddenly, an Elder to her right poked her sharply in the ribs. <em>What? Oh—yes, the bottling. </em>Celeste stepped forward, surveying the glass brandy bottle-shaped containers available to bottle the dark essence of Jimmy Westwell’s soul. She completed the task adeptly and placed the container on a wooden apothecary shelf.</p><p>
  <em>Now, to name the new Jimmy Westwell…who begins life anew without a single memory of his past self…who should this man be called?</em>
</p><p>Celeste had only minutes to make this momentous decision. She remembered having seen in the castle corridor not so long ago, a well-made portrait of Harold Godwinson, ancient Anglo-Saxon king of Scotland circa year 1066, a most excellent likeness. <em>Harold, or…Harry. </em>Yes, <em>Harry. </em>Proper-sounding, with a contemporary flair.</p><p>As for Harry’s last name? She hurriedly looked toward the apothecary shelf; the dark matter was stored between two glass jars labeled “Green grass” and “Wood Worm.” <em>Green? Too generic. Worm? Yuck, no. Green…wood? Greenwood! </em>And so “Greenwood” it was. No sooner had she decided, that the man began stirring; Celeste turned around to greet him.</p><p>“Good morning, Harry Greenwood. Due to your heroic efforts during your mortal life on Earth saving Matias, you have now been made a Whitelighter.” Celeste mentioned a bit about training, apprenticeships, and later assignment to a magical person and/or family, of whom he was honor-bound to serve and protect. Harry indicated that he was indeed open to this unique opportunity, though he had no idea who this “Matias” was, given the double memory erasure (of Jimmy, then when Jimmy became Harry).</p><p>What Celeste had neglected to mention, however, was that Matias and his mother Darcy Valensi were distant relatives of a future Charmed One, Macy. Celeste knew that sooner or later, Harry Greenwood would encounter this equally gorgeous relative, thoroughly dreading the day his distractions would cloud his wiser Whitelighter judgment.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Harry, of course, had no idea.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</em>
</p><p>
  <em>3 pm Seattle, 10 pm Azores, SafeSpace Command Center, Present Day</em>
</p><p>Harry instinctively rolled a couple of marbles at the Command Center—their cool, smooth touch felt oddly familiar in the palm of his hand. His momentary contemplation was interrupted by Macy, who appeared by his side, grinning like mad after their heady adventures together in the Azores.</p><p>“Ready to return to Vera Manor?” he asked. Macy nodded, kissing his cheek as she took his outstretched arm.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This concludes the saga of Jimmy &amp; Darcy. Thanks for reading! The next chapters will cover Macy and Harry's blossoming relationship, a certain she-shed, the Azores, and more lighthearted vignettes. The merging of Jimmy and Harry will be an interesting and complicated situation in the future, given Jimmy &amp; Darcy's history.</p><p>Edited to add (thanks @Nyleve_Hacy_Careese_Helliam_03 for commenting):<br/>-Darcy, Matias, and Macy are all descended from the patriarch Denis and Azorian matriarch Terazinha (Tera)<br/>-Macy is the great-great niece of Darcy, and is the cousin twice removed of Matias (twice removed=different generation, but still distant cousins)<br/>-Matias is alive and in his late 70s (hint: see chapter 6: The Strange Morning of Matias) ;)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Sordid Science in the She-Shed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>22 Sordid Science in the She-Shed</p><p>4:30 pm<em>, Vera Manor Garden, She-Shed, Seattle, Washington</em></p><p>Having pored through a myriad of online research in the past hour, Macy hadn’t yet found any binding legislative authority specifically stating it was illegal to have a genetics laboratory business in one’s own backyard.</p><p>She knew she had no intention of turning it into a meth lab, she wasn’t going to operate a drug ring, and the whole enterprise was to add something to her resume for when she applied to postdoctoral positions later on, after Vera Manor grew a bit more settled in its locale. Plus, it would give Macy and her sisters more money; it was challenging for the three sisters to subsist on Maggie’s salary alone.</p><p>Macy’s state-of-the-art genetic analysis machine was stashed in the corner of the desk she was currently working off of. Her sturdy chair held her lithe form, with a few pillows, and a fluffy white rug lay under her bare feet. The dark-tinted and possibly rusted-over shed windows hid the light emanating from her laptop. Outside the she-shed, in silver ink, was scrawled “99 good things just one bad.”</p><p>4:35 pm<em>, Vera Manor Garden, She-Shed, Seattle, Washington</em></p><p><em>Ping. </em>Macy checked her email. <em>A new client</em>. Her spell-work at encryption and her IT certification years ago had finally paid off, and she was finally pilot testing her new enterprise. Macy read through the request, (<em>Anonymous </em>it stated, under the requesting party) which was for the testing of an exotic <em>Deinosuchus</em> crocodile genome. This would hardly be unusual, except for the fact this species had long since died out centuries ago, and the specimen had been uncovered near Loch Ness Lake in Scotland. Macy switched the machine on and began her work.</p><p>The sample itself would be arriving by automated magical mail into the delivery slot to her left, which resembled a library book drop-off container. <em>Plunk</em>.</p><p><em>Macy beamed. </em>She donned her gloves, pipetting the crocodile’s substance into a sample tube, and initiated the analysis. Macy considered herself lucky to have obtained this duplicate machine; she recalled her early years in the university laboratory, using 100 pipettes to withdraw delicate samples for plating onto a gel surface, which in turn was connected to various hooked-up electrode devices. The process back then took several painstaking hours and involved reading the samples in a photographer’s darkroom. In contract, <em>crocky</em> here would only take an hour, at most.</p><p>5 pm<em>, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em></p><p>As the machine continued to run, Macy decided to pop by the Vera Manor kitchen to brew herself a much-needed cup of coffee. She found Maggie and Mel there, having a quick dinner before heading back out to SafeSpace Seattle (Maggie to her job, and Mel to watch over Kat’s store, Spellbound). She said a quick <em>hey</em> to them, before turning her back to face the coffee machine. <em>Extra strong, with a splash of almond milk and perhaps a dash of cinnamon. </em>Macy’s drink was thus made, and she blew on its steaming surface to avoid burning her tongue. <em>Mmmm…</em>she could feel the energy jolt of caffeine permeating her veins.</p><p>Just then, both Maggie and Mel turned in her general direction, eyeing her a little too cheerfully. “So <em>Macy. </em>How was last night?”</p><p>“Busy,” replied Macy nonchalantly. “Y’know, I’ve decided to start an in-home genetics research business; it’s really quite fascinating the stuff clients will send you—I got a huge crocodile specimen to review—” Macy took a slow sip of her coffee, before turning around to face Maggie and Mel, anticipation written plain into their excited faces. “What?!” asked Macy. “I actually <em>was </em>really busy…” her words trailed off.</p><p>“Yeah, right,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure that wasn’t the <em>only </em>huge thing you were busy reviewing,” as Mel laughed aloud. Macy choked on her coffee, as her cheeks turned a deep shade of magenta.</p><p>“<em>In my room,” </em>Macy emphasized. “I was busy researching crocodile genomes. <em>In. My. Room.</em>”</p><p>“Denial really doesn’t suit you,” Mel remarked offhandedly, tearing off the remnants of her pita bread, which she dipped in a strange combination of hummus, queso, and baba Ghanoush. “If you were in a Murakami Love Ho, by all means just say so. We don’t—” and she beckoned to Maggie, “—judge. Not at all.” Maggie shook her head, emphasizing Mel’s words.</p><p>“Did you just call me a “<em>ho</em>??”” asked Macy incredulously.</p><p>“Noooooo…’course not,” interjected Maggie. “Mel here just finished reading <em>After Dark </em>by Haruki Murakami, about workaholics that need to go to a Love Hotel (“Love Ho”) to get any action with their lover, because they live with their fam and the walls are thin. Isn’t that right, Mel?”</p><p>“<em>Love Ho</em>,” uttered Mel again. “Macy, stop trying to hide. We know everything. There’s no shame in going away to a Love Ho—”</p><p>“-tel.” Mel caught a glimpse of Harry’s figure entering the kitchen.</p><p>“Hello girls—were you talking about—?” he looked at them quizzically.</p><p>“Hotels.” Maggie cut in quickly. “I’m, uh….making reservations for…hotels! For an upcoming conference at SafeSpace. I’m presenting a pitch to the board of directors flying in next month.”</p><p>“Kudos, millennial Maggie!” Harry said by way of praise, impressed that Maggie had worked her way up to such a fascinating career path.</p><p>“And I—” Mel chimed in, “will continue researching the merging spell I mentioned last week, to figure out this whole Jimmy/Harry thing.” Harry nodded.</p><p>
  <em>Macy, meanwhile, had snuck back out to the she-shed.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Spellwork at the Speed of Light</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>23 Spellwork at the Speed of Light</p><p>6 pm<em>, Vera Manor Garden, She-Shed, Seattle, Washington</em></p><p>Macy checked on the status of crocky, the sizable exotic <em>Deinosuchus</em> crocodile genome, and reread the anonymous request. She noticed that the sampling process had not proceeded as fast as she expected, and exasperated, she muttered a speed spell she had been meaning to test out.</p><p>
  <em>Genome, genome in the well, stir and smoke, bake and swell.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Reach completion ever faster, obey thine impatient female master.</em>
</p><p>It was not her spiffiest spellwork, but perhaps it would do. Macy stared at the machine, wondering if anything would happen, keeping an eye on the <em>blips </em>and customary <em>beeps </em>the technology made when processing the specimen.</p><p>Just then—a <em>BANG</em> ensued, causing crocky’s remnants to plaster the she-shed’s inner walls—a scientific experiment gone horribly wrong. The explosion of crocky rattled the rusted-over windowpanes and fixtures, and briefly ignited the rug beneath her feet, causing a great deal of smoke to fill the enclosed space. Mel and Maggie had already left Vera Manor for SafeSpace, and Macy was sprawled out across the floor, knocked unconscious by her very own words.</p><p>6:05 pm<em>, Vera Manor Garden, She-Shed</em></p><p>Harry knew something was wrong.</p><p>For one, Macy wasn’t there to greet him while she drank her afternoon coffee. For another, Mel and Maggie were long since gone, and Macy still had not reappeared from wherever in the world she was hiding, to sneak a few stolen kisses as she usually had before.</p><p>Harry called out to Macy, who was neither in her room nor in the living room, the hallways, the basement, or the back garden—<em>or was she? </em>He thought back to the Arlissa lyrics Macy had written adjoining a garden shed and decided to investigate.</p><p>He tried knocking on the shed door, but there was no response. Going around its sides, he went near a window, and, cupping his eyes, saw Macy sprawled across the floor of the she-shed. <em>Oh no, oh no, oh no, </em>he thought frantically as he ran back to the shed door and barreled into it with all of his might to rescue Macy, who was still inside and had not yet regained consciousness. Realizing Macy had likely put a doorway spell to lock the enclosure, he uttered a few words, and the door swung open.</p><p>The rug was among the first burning items Harry spotted; he stomped his foot on the lingering flame, which thankfully went out after a few precarious seconds. The rug was now singed and slightly smoking, and clouds billowed out of the room.</p><p><em>Macy, </em>Harry whispered as he held her body, <em>please hold on.</em></p><p>6:06 pm<em>, Macy’s Subconscious Brain</em></p><p>A burst of blinding light emanated; once the wattage dimmed, Macy looked around, observing a wide variety of patrons in this crowded purple-draped, rose quartz-festooned jazz club, which she heard someone refer to as “Tessera.” She looked down, and instead of seeing her typical casual-but-chic home clothes, she was wearing a dark flapper-style dress with gold-scalloped sequins and beaded trim. <em>Dammit, I’m unconscious again, aren’t I? </em>Macy mentally scolded herself for trying too hard to control everyday circumstances, yet again. Like the last time she was knocked out, it was she who was onstage, and based on her style of clothing, it was the 1940s. It appeared that gin and tonics were flowing freely in this hidden enclave for magical folk.</p><p>An announcer proclaimed, gesturing toward Macy, “And now for her solo debut, DARCY VALENSI!” The audience roared with applause, and Macy, assuming it was she they were referring to, commenced singing of her own accord, with lyrics she mysteriously knew by heart.</p><p>
  <em>Hello stars, that twinkle ever-so-bright,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>As you swing me closer tonight.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hold my hand, twirl me ‘round, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And keep me near, safe and sound…</em>
</p><p>Macy looked to her left, where she was shocked to see, offstage, a very handsome Harry winking at her. She readjusted her gaze, and continued singing until the end, and was met with much applause. Once she finished curtseying, she ran to Harry and hugged him, glad to see a familiar face.</p><p>“You did <em>wonderfully, </em>Darcy!” he exclaimed.</p><p>“<em>Darcy?” </em>she questioned, raising an eyebrow.</p><p>“I’m Jimmy, you’re Darcy, remember? Miss Darcy Madalena Valensi, queen of my heart forevermore,” he joked affectionately.</p><p>Macy decided to play along for the time being. “Likewise…<em>Jimmy.</em>”</p><p>6:08 pm<em>, Vera Manor Garden, She-Shed</em></p><p><em>Macy, </em>Harry whispered as he held her body, <em>please come back. </em>He had been holding his hand above her body for at least a couple of minutes, but it seemed like forever. <em>I’ll do anything</em>.</p><p>6:10 pm<em>, Macy’s Subconscious Brain</em></p><p>“Remind me again how we met, Jimmy,” Macy decided to explore this whole <em>Jimmy &amp; Darcy </em>bit. “Did we meet…in…a bar?”</p><p>He shook his head. “Darling, it was through Celeste, remember?”</p><p>6:11 pm<em>, Vera Manor Garden, She-Shed</em></p><p>A sudden gasp of air emanated from Macy, as she suddenly regained consciousness; Harry hugged her so tightly that she whispered, <em>“Harry, I can’t breathe,” </em>and he quickly loosened his grip.</p><p>“Are you <em>crying</em>?” Macy rose into a seated position in the still-smoldering room. Harry wiped the stray tears away.</p><p>“I-I thought—I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered, unable to look her straight in the eye.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Macy murmured. “I’ve been trying to start a genetics testing business in this she-shed, and crocky here exploded because I got too impatient for my own good.”</p><p>“What have I told you about using magic to speed things up?” Harry shakily replied. “You tried to speed up analysis of an 82 million-year-old creature, of <em>course </em>it was going to take time!”</p><p>“I know…I should have listened. I think I can salvage enough to email the client their results but cleaning up isn’t going to be pretty.” At this, Macy rose to face Harry, and they passionately kissed. But then, a weird thought hit Macy.</p><p>“Harry, back when you were Jimmy, did you know my great-great aunt Darcy Valensi?”</p><p>“I don’t think so,” he answered uncertainly, “though when I became a Whitelighter, many of my memories had been erased.”</p><p>“I had a vision just now,” said Macy, “that I was in a 1940s magical jazz bar called “Tessera,” performing while Jimmy was flirting with me backstage.”</p><p>“The Tessera?” Harry questioned. “Are you <em>absolutely </em>certain it was the Tessera Nightclub?”</p><p>“Yup, Tessera—and when I asked Jimmy how we’d met, he said through Celeste—”</p><p>“That’s where I died—” Harry and Macy’s eyes met in shocked understanding. Suddenly, everything made sense.</p><p> </p><p><em>That</em> <em>bitch</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. The Madwoman of Mykonos</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>24 The Madwoman of Mykonos</p><p>7 pm<em>, Vera Manor Garden, She-Shed</em></p><p>“So, tell me again why you two are going to Mykonos and I’m cleaning up exploded crocodile instead of selling geodes to vegan yogis achieving enlightenment?” asked Mel testily.</p><p>“Celeste” both Macy and Harry spoke in unison.</p><p>“What now?” Mel inquired, knowing this would surely be interesting.</p><p>Macy’s eyes met Harry’s, and she responded in what she hoped was concise enough to satisfy all parties. “Harry and my great-great aunt Darcy were very much in love, back when he was Jimmy in the 1940s. It appears that Celeste removed all of Harry’s memories pertaining to that and kept both of us in the dark. We’re paying Celeste a visit to get some answers.”</p><p><em>“That bitch,” </em>Mel exclaimed. “I knew I never liked her. And wow—that’s definitely a lot to take in. Use all the time you need—and be safe, ok? I’ll text Maggie and Jordan and fill them in. And I’ll keep researching the merging techniques.”</p><p>“Thanks sis, I owe you one,” Macy responded, grateful that Mel clearly had her back.</p><p>7:50 pm/5:50 am<em>, Residence of Elder Celeste, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>Harry decided it was quicker to orb directly to Celeste’s flat in the tropical isles of Greece, and Macy agreed. <em>They needed answers, and they needed them now.</em></p><p>They landed with a <em>pop</em> on Celeste’s front door welcome mat. Macy looked around; it was not yet sunrise, but her eyes could make out the cosmopolitan cubic white architecture, the bright peacock blue shutters, and the smooth cobblestone walkways. The scent of pink Bougainvillea tree blossoms filled the air, and the echo of rushing waves created an atmosphere of utter serenity. Macy seemed surprised that Celeste chose this place to live, of anywhere on earth. <em>And maybe, just a bit jealous too. </em></p><p>5:51 am<em>, Residence of Elder Celeste, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>Harry and Macy knocked sharply on the cerulean blue door, <em>once, twice, </em>then—</p><p>The door opened, revealing Celeste in her usual dark robes, with the hint of a richly hued sea green blouse underneath, likely purchased from a local atoll boutique. She was clutching a transparent shot glass filled halfway to the top. “Ouzo,” Celeste stated aloud, to Macy and Harry’s questioning look. “Local drink, dry anise aperitif, other aliases include raki, arak, pastis and sambuca.”</p><p>“It’s 5:51 am, Celeste,” Macy seemed perplexed. “Isn’t it kind of early to be drinking?” Both Macy and Harry intended to angrily confront Celeste but were momentarily taken off guard.</p><p>Celeste waved her off as she opened the door further to let them in, responding, “It’s 9 minutes to 5 pm in Maui, that’s good enough for me.” <em>Harry and Macy exchanged quizzical glances</em>.</p><p>5:55 am<em>, Residence of Elder Celeste, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>The three retired to Celeste’s living room, which was completely white from the ceiling fixtures down to the modern, curvy chairs and their spindly legs. Macy was silently surveying this surrealist landscape, wondering how it was possible for such a thorny tyrant to be allowed to own such fancy things and live so peacefully when so many other more-deserving witches could not. Once seated, Harry began asking about what Celeste knew of his past self, Jimmy, the Tessera Nightclub, “<em>and Darcy,” </em>Macy interjected.</p><p>Celeste chuckled. “I knew this day would come,” she casually remarked. “Don’t look so shocked,” she told the two, taking a delicate sip of what remained of her ouzo. “I just didn’t think you would confront me before the crack of dawn—<em>millennials these days—</em>and I had to invite you in so you wouldn’t wake the whole neighborhood. Though I doubt that would even be possible, as everyone here is over eighty years old and hard of hearing. Except for Adonis of course, but he has his own problems…keeps telling the local folk I’m off my rocker…” she trailed off.</p><p>“Why did you erase my memory of Darcy?” began Harry.</p><p>“The answer, of course, is quite simple—time loops! If I had you keep your memory, your very being would have ripped the fabric of time, and you might have ended up with a <em>Flowers in the Attic </em>situation if you weren’t careful. Of course, that’s the worst-case scenario—ending up with someone who’s related to you, completely by accident.”</p><p>“Wait—<em>what?” </em>Macy shrieked. “We’re <em>not</em> related—are…we?” she and Harry turned toward each other, then back at Celeste.</p><p>“NO of course not!” snapped Celeste. “I was just <em>saying</em>, that’s the worst-case magical scenario that memory wiping is supposed to fix. Honestly, I found Jimmy at Darcy’s flat after she was killed by a war bomb per a soothsayer prophecy, and he was utterly distraught. This was a once-jovial man. I couldn’t very well have him plunked back down in his own flat, a drunkard drowning his sorrows for an Azorian woman he knew for less than a month, buried a thousand miles away in Pico and a boy he wasn’t supposed to rescue from the Sarcana—<em>hic!</em>” Celeste hiccupped rather loudly, her imbibement catching up with her. “If your memory wasn’t wiped, people would talk! Magic could have been discovered by nonmagical folk—the mystical community would have been forever in shambles!” Harry grew visibly angry with each syllable she uttered.</p><p>6:20 am<em>, Residence of Elder Celeste, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>“You. Ruined. MY. LIFE!” Harry roared. “I had a wife and a child I couldn’t love, a career I couldn’t appreciate, and I knew, I just <em>knew</em>, that someone was always missing in my life. My empathy quotient! You had <em>NO</em> right—" At this point, Macy had to physically hold him back from throwing a punch at Celeste, who sat calmly, whirling her index finger over the rim of her shot glass, completely oblivious to the tension threatening to spill over.</p><p>“Well, technically, as Elder, I did,” Celeste responded casually. “<em>Look, </em>Harry. I saw what you had with Darcy, having only known her for mere weeks. You did an exemplary job guarding her, which made me realize you’d make the perfect Whitelighter. You saved Matias from being weaponized by the Sarcana, even when you easily could have run the opposite direction. I figured, I’d give you two a second chance more or less.” Celeste motioned in Macy’s general direction. “The way I see things, you two really should be thanking me,” and she sat back in her white ergonomic seat, rather self-satisfied with the way things were.</p><p>“<em>Thanking you?”</em> Harry exclaimed. “Of all the bloody…” he could be heard mumbling a string of British curse words, the likes of which Macy had never known existed. (<em>A random thought popped into her head that she should reuse some of those in the bedroom sometime, perhaps with the black velvet blindfold she found in the attic.) </em></p><p>7 am<em>, Residence of Elder Celeste, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>“Celeste, would you give us a moment?” Macy pulled Harry aside into a corner of the airy, pristine room.</p><p>“<em>Harry, she’s not worth it!</em>” Macy hissed. “Don’t let her get to you, she’s drunk and probably doesn’t know half of what she’s saying! Let’s hear her out before she sobers up, we could learn a thing or two about our past.” Harry took a couple of deep breaths, met her eyes, and nodded, as they returned to their seats facing Celeste.</p><p>“And—and what of Matias, the boy?” Harry tried to sound nonchalant.</p><p>Celeste replied, with a wave of her hand. “Oh, <em>him. </em>He was taken in by his aunts, Dora and Della of Epicenter Pico No. 22; the sisters are long since dead. Still lives there, so I’ve heard. Down-to-earth guy. Sells his herbs at the market every Saturday with his pal Morgana.” Macy’s eyes widened in shock.</p><p>“You—you <em>knew?”</em> she whispered. “Dora and Della were my great-great aunts!”</p><p>“Only because the terms of the agreement didn’t, of course include me,” Celeste answered, as her eyes began to close; she was beginning to doze off a bit. “Matias can’t have contact with Harry until he turns 80, otherwise, he dies. That’s why I’m perfectly at ease telling you all of this.”</p><p>“How old is Matias now?”</p><p>“He turns 80 tomorrow.” With that, Celeste’s head slumped to her right, and she began snoring loudly.</p><p>Harry and Macy knew that was their cue to depart, which they did, quietly, without making so much as a peep.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Of Beaches & Babies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>25 Of Beaches &amp; Babies</p><p>8 am<em>, Super Paradise Beach, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>Harry and Macy found themselves at Super Paradise Beach (<em>“the greatest beach in Mykonos!” </em>a nearby billboard touted, in both Greek and English). Holding hands, they stepped onto the warm granules of powdery honey-colored sand, their toes sinking into what felt like kinetic sand ASMR, but better. There were not many people out and about due to the early hour; they walked to a nearby tiki lounge and decided to order a light breakfast. Harry went with an iced tea; Macy ordered an iced frappé, a Grecian coffee drink composed of instant coffee, water, sugar, and the local milk.</p><p>While their drinks were being prepared, Macy delicately broached the topic of Celeste. “I know you’re upset Harry—believe me, I would be <em>beyond </em>pissed if I learned the love of my life died and my memory had been wiped to remove all traces of her. But, I think, as twisted as Celeste is, she <em>did</em> help bring us together. Honestly, if it weren’t for her, we wouldn’t be on our second transatlantic date, grabbing breakfast on a Grecian isle.”</p><p>Harry raised an eyebrow, a hint of a hopeful smile on his lips. “<em>Are </em>we dating? Are we a <em>thing</em> now?”</p><p>Macy ignored Harry’s evasive attempt to change the subject. “Harry, Darcy was already doomed by the soothsayer—there’s nothing you could have done to prevent her death, and you know it. Your actions were really heroic. Jimmy wasn’t all darkness. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t completely bad to the core.”</p><p>“I thought he was,” Harry murmured. “I spent years—years upon<em> years</em>—formulating his persona in my head, demonizing him, criticizing him to the ends of the earth, and the bitter memories I had of Clara served to perpetuate that. It was easier that way. It was easier to blame someone concrete, someone with a shoddy reputation.”</p><p>“Perhaps Jimmy was remiss in his marriage with Clara, but he did a lot of good too; he saved my family line,” replied Macy.</p><p>“<em>Perhaps, indeed..</em>.”</p><p>8:30 am<em>, Super Paradise Beach, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>Harry and Macy’s drinks had arrived, and a few minutes passed in silence as they sipped their beverages, reflecting on what had happened just mere hours before. “My past self seems redeemable enough, from what Celeste told us. It’s a far cry from the Jimmy <em>I</em> knew though—a consummate drunk and a worthless excuse of a human being,” stated Harry, staring into the aromatic mahogany concoction that was his Earl Grey tea.</p><p>“And I keep telling you,” retorted Macy, “that neither you nor your past are worthless. Jimmy is a part of your history; it’s nothing to be ashamed of, and it’s a piece of the Harry I care deeply about today.” She reached over and stroked his arm.</p><p>“Matias though,” said Harry, continuing the discussion, “I can’t believe Celeste tried to hide that Jimmy rescued him from the Sarcana.”</p><p>“Maybe it was out of Celeste’s control?” Macy suggested, though knowing that even if it weren’t, it would not have made a bit of difference. <em>Celeste was still a conniving shrew, that much was certain.</em> Macy suddenly had an idea. “How about this: I’ll draft a letter this afternoon—our letter—and we can leave it by Matias’ doorstep tomorrow so he can read it and decide for himself what to do with the information we give him. How does that sound?”</p><p>“That sounds like a plan,” Harry replied, more or less agreeably. They spent the next minutes after that examining the shoreline from a distance, with its cool splashes of foamy, aquamarine water slapping against the crystalline sand, taking in the expansive, cloudless sky as they listened for the gulls circling overhead in flocks. <em>Being of magical origin certainly had its perks sometimes.</em></p><p>9:30 am<em>, Super Paradise Beach, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>“I can’t believe that all of this happened when Matias was, from my calculations, a baby and definitely less than a year old,” Macy spoke out of the blue.</p><p>“<em>I know</em>,” Harry said, wearily, placing his Earl Grey teabag on the inner rim of his white porcelain saucer.</p><p>“And—I mean—then there’s Darcy. She had a <em>baby</em>, and she was all alone—she must have been <em>so </em>scared—” said Macy. “It was really brave of Jimmy to rescue a baby he didn’t know.”</p><p>“It was Darcy’s child,” responded Harry. “I imagine that since they were very much in love, Jimmy thought of her son as if he were Jimmy’s own flesh and blood, and just as irrepressibly beautiful, sweet, and lovely as his own darling Darcy,” he said, looking at Macy with renewed intensity.</p><p>“Harry…do you want kids of your own someday…with me?” Macy inquired carefully.</p><p>Harry paused to parse his thoughts out before speaking. “Truth be told, I had never thought about being a father, after Carter. If me becoming a father again were possible in this day and age, would it violate the laws of nature?” Harry wondered aloud, intertwining his fingers with hers.</p><p>Macy laughed, looking down at the paper straw wrapper she had been crumpling up into tiny balls these past few minutes with her other hand—a nervous habit. “Considering you’re over 80 and I’m a stillborn regenerated by a necromancer, <em>probably</em>. But that’s not good enough a reason to give up on being a father again, if there’s still that chance. If that’s, of course, what you want…?” She peered up at him curiously.</p><p>“But back when I was Jimmy, I was an alcoholic—per my dishonorable family name,” said Harry dispiritedly.</p><p>“That was Jimmy, whose memory was tampered with by Celeste. <em>We know that now.</em> You are Harry, reborn as a Whitelighter. Your life is whatever you decide to make of it—your life is your own, and it’s time you understood that,” said Macy, staring him straight in the eye. “Do you want kids or not?”</p><p>“Well, in that case, and since you framed up your argument ever-so-elegantly…” replied Harry, now more invigorated by Macy’s pep talk and the tea, “<em>Yes</em>. In ideal circumstances, I could see myself being the father of your children Macy. But I’m scared—”</p><p>“Aren’t we all?” Macy asked. “I imagine everyone goes into parenthood completely terrified and horribly clueless.”</p><p>“True,” Harry laughed.</p><p>“And if for a second you think you can get away with not changing a diaper, or being an ass, you have another thing coming—” Macy said, teasingly wagging a finger in his general direction.</p><p>“Point taken. I do imagine, sometimes, what a baby of ours would look like,” he pondered. “I imagine they’d have your lively curly hair—”</p><p>“Your marble-grey eyes—“ interjected Macy.</p><p>“And your spirited personality,” finished Harry.</p><p>With that, they kissed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. A is for Azores, Z is for Zouganeli</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>26 A is for Azores, Z is for Zouganeli</p><p>Noon-2 pm<em>, To Vivlio Bookshop, Zouganeli Street, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>Macy had no idea how to address a baby, now an aged seventy-something-year-old, who was too young at the time to know that Harry had rescued him from a life of violent servitude. She sat at a bench next to Harry with stationery she bought from <em>To Vivlio</em>, the locally-known bookshop in Mykonos, and began to write a very long letter.</p><p>2 pm<em>, To Vivlio Bookshop, Zouganeli Street, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>Harry bought a Grecian guidebook containing important details (such as scenic overlooks and fine dining restaurants highly-rated in the general vicinity), and thumbed through it, bookmarking one tab. While Macy was engrossed in her letter writing, he ducked out to borrow the bookseller’s phone, dialing the number in the guidebook. He reached a most effusive, friendly gentleman by the name of Panagiotis Tsoukatos. In halting Greek, Harry asked, “Me synchoreíte miláte Anglika? Ta elliniká mou eínai tromerá (<em>Do you speak English? My Greek is terrible).</em>” The speaker on the other line, Panagiotis, chuckled as he switched to English, a language growing more common due to the heavy influx of American tourists. After a couple minutes of hushed discussion, Panagiotis reassured Harry that his request was able to be taken care of that very evening, and not to worry at all.</p><p>3-4 pm, <em>Valtadoros Boutique, Zouganeli Street, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>Harry told Macy that for the purposes of blending in, they should probably do a bit of clothes shopping at the Zouganeli boutiques that surrounded them. Macy, for once in her life, agreed that spending money would be prudent for that reason. They agreed to meet up at 5 pm afterward at the nearby Stefanou Street corner to figure out additional logistics (e.g., dinner).</p><p>Macy stepped into a preppy dress boutique (“<em>Valtadoros,” </em>the sign read) and was greeted by a bright blue-eyed older female storekeeper wearing beaded bifocals. “American?” she asked. Macy nodded. “What are you looking for?” the lady asked, leaving the register to rifle through the various white blouses, dresses, and other feminine outerwear.</p><p>“I-I’m not exactly sure. Something nice to wear in Mykonos? And perhaps something to wear to dinner tonight?” hesitated Macy, looking at the mannequin on display. All tall, willowy figures, without a single realistic human curve. <em>Had she come to the wrong place?</em></p><p>“Oh, I have <em>just </em>the items!” the female storekeeper said. “Here is a white summer paisley blouse, with quarter-length sleeves, which matches a pair of apricot-pink capri leggings. Of course, the whole ensemble would go quite well with these,” the lady went on, producing a rather chic pair of comfortable straw-colored wedge sandals.</p><p>“Wow, thanks,” Macy replied, surprised that they had items in her exact size, not to mention shoe size. It was quite challenging to find items in quarter sizes or half sizes, and her shoe size wasn’t the easiest to shop for, if she wanted something ergonomic and stylish. “I’ll go try these on in the fitting room—if that’s ok?”</p><p>The woman nodded; “my name is Hesper, if you need anything,” she responded.</p><p> Macy closed the door of the fitting room and tried the white blouse on with the damask leggings. Usually, Macy never wore light-colored clothing. It was so easy, working in the lab, to spill any number of chemicals all over herself if she was not careful. She had always opted for navy blue, or black—never white. And <em>pale</em> <em>pink</em>? It seemed really, obnoxiously girly, to her at least. Macy could not recall the last time she wore pale pink…anything. <em>Not even in grade school</em>. Her father Dexter always chose practical clothing without much frills or anything; it wasn’t his fault—he was a guy and there’s no way he could have known how to choose a little girl’s dress set, once Marisol left.</p><p>“Everything ok in there?” Hesper asked through the door.</p><p>“Yes, everything’s good—the outfit looks nice,” Macy replied.</p><p>“Here are some dresses I selected for you—I’ll drape them over the door,” and Hesper departed to welcome a repeat customer who had just entered the shop. Macy pulled the stack of dresses toward her and began to comb through them. One black dress, one red, a pale baby blue strapless, and a light olive-green dress that looked vaguely promising.</p><p>Trying on the outfits, Macy made quick judgments. <em>The black one</em>, she thought, <em>made her look like a Tarantino girl</em>; it wrapped around her figure too tightly, amplifying her bust but hiding the rest of her behind a one-dimensional shadow. The red one screamed “tart,” with its bright neon-like hue<em>—</em>definitely not a “Harry, kiss me <em>now</em>” look<em>. </em>More like, <em>grab my tits and shove me up a wall…</em>Macy rolled her eyes. She wanted Harry to romance her in public, not grope her like a horny, oversexed teenager.</p><p>The baby blue one made her look like a teenager at a prom.<em> Nothing wrong with a prom dress, </em>she thought, but it looked far too “innocent” and she knew she wanted a “head-turner.” And finally, there was the light-olive green dress, which looked exactly like a “Neiman Marcus Norma Kamali Goddess Sleeveless Handkerchief Gown” she had seen as a Facebook pop-up ad and had secretly admired. She put on the dress, pulling the straps onto her shoulders, and looked in the mirror, surveying the casual-chic, elegantly pleated fabric.</p><p>
  <em>It looked perfect.</em>
</p><p>Just then, Hesper knocked on Macy’s dressing room door to check on her, once more. Macy twisted the doorknob and walked out towards a nearby floor-to-ceiling mirror; Hesper clasped her hands in delight. “Your boyfriend, he’ll think—<em>Wow!” </em>Macy laughed good-naturedly. “Wait a moment—” Hesper stopped. “I know just the thing—” Macy watched as Hesper briskly walked to the costume jewelry section of the store and grabbed a pair of rose quartz chandelier earrings off of the shelf. “He’ll want to propose marriage, and then you two will have beautiful, <em>beautiful </em>babies!”</p><p>“I wouldn’t go <em>that </em>far,” Macy laughed. “We’ve only just begun seeing each other.”</p><p>“The look in his eyes,” Hesper pointed two of her right-hand fingers at her eyes, then at Macy’s for emphasis, “he cannot take his eyes off you.”</p><p>“How much for the outfit ensemble, the dress, and the earrings?” Macy asked.</p><p>Hesper listed the price, “but I give a 40% discount on the earrings, especially for you.” She winked slyly, as if to say, <em>knock ‘im dead.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. M is for Mykonia, N is for Noa</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>27 M is for Mykonia, N is for Noa</p><p>5:15 pm, <em>Stefanou Street corner, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>Harry checked and rechecked his watch. <em>Where was she? </em>He looked to his left and to his right, staring down street corners, as throngs of tourists wearing virtually the same pale clothing milled about. It was impossible to wear dark clothing in this summer-like heat; one would easily faint from heat stroke. Just then, he shielded his face from the sun and could barely make out the elusive figure of Macy, this time sporting a white flowy blouse, pale pink leggings, and equally stylish sandals.</p><p>“You certainly blend in, Macy,” Harry remarked, not-so-subtly looking her up and down.</p><p>“So do you—per the saying, <em>when in Rome</em>,” said Macy, now observing his khaki pants and cropped Guayabera shirt, that made him resemble a quartermaster on a pirate ship. <em>It certainly awakened some images of Harry as a sexy, shirtless pirate, taking her hostage on his mammoth ship... </em></p><p>“Macy!” Harry interrupted her momentary fantasy.</p><p>“Sorry, what?” asked Macy.</p><p>“I was just thinking—let’s go somewhere to eat.”</p><p>“Where did you have in mind?” Macy inquired.</p><p>“Let me show you,” Harry said. “But first, change into the other nice outfit you bought, and meet me here in 15 minutes. I’ll do the same.” And so they did.</p><p>5:30 pm, <em>Stefanou Street corner, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>Harry sat at a nearby bench, tapping his foot on the ground, waiting for Macy to don her evening dress. In all of his years as Whitelighter, he never once recalled venturing to tropical isles as being one of his day-to-day duties. <em>But, he supposed, there was always a first time for everything</em>. He felt a tap on his right shoulder; he turned around. <em>Macy.</em></p><p>She wore a form-fitting olive green gown that was intricately pleated, with a uniquely tapered hem; her rose quartz chandelier earrings shimmered in the humid sunlight, catching the flickering reflection of storefronts and the clear, dazzling water nearby. <em>She looked like a woodland nymph—no—a queen. And an absolutely breathtaking one at that. </em> </p><p>Harry looked at her a bit open-mouthed as she reached over and kissed him on the cheek. “You look…shocked,” Macy ventured.</p><p>“You look…<em>good</em>,” Harry said, wrapping his arm around her waist, this time pulling her close and kissing her on the lips.</p><p>“So do you,” said Macy, now observing his slacks and fancy dark green dress shirt.</p><p>“Shall we?” Harry offered his arm once more, and they walked elegantly into the heat of the lingering late afternoon.</p><p>6 pm, <em>Noa Restaurant, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>Macy was glad the fabric she wore was breathable and light; Harry seemed none the worse. <em>The Greeks certainly knew how to design clothes for the weather here, </em>she thought to herself. Harry and Macy had been walking for what seemed to be the greater part of an hour, taking side streets and winding passages up and down cubic architecture-laden ocean hillsides, through cobblestone paths, passing quaint little staircases leading to azure doors, until they finally reached what appeared to be an urban oasis—the type one often only saw in feature films.</p><p>“Where are we?” asked Macy curiously, spotting what appeared to be a decorative mosaic-lined resort pool and an adjoining cabana-chic oyster bar.</p><p>“Noa Restaurant, five stars, which is attached to this particular resort that goes by the name of Mykonian Kyma. I figured since we were in the Grecian Isles, we might as well enjoy the local cuisine and…” Harry’s voice trailed off uncertainly.</p><p>“…<em>and?</em>” prompted Macy, still holding Harry’s arm, while surveying the scenery of largesse. “<em>And…?”</em></p><p>Harry grinned. “<em>And…</em>consider this a proper date—if, of course, that’s ok with you.”</p><p>Macy squeezed his hand, as if to say yes.</p><p>6:15 pm, <em>Noa Restaurant, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>They had been led to their table across the almond-colored tile flooring that seemed practically endemic here; the white ceiling was filled with thin, cylindrically spiky modern lighting fixtures that resembled an abstract art interpretation of tree roots. The seats facing across from each other: one was a large lime-green rectangular-cushioned booth seat, and the other was a solid hazel-brown chair. Ever the gentleman, Harry gave Macy the booth seat, while he sat in the wood chair across from her. A bushel of miniature (<em>live, not artificial, </em>observed Macy) green fern branches lay in a small powder blue ceramic vase on the table, along with polished silverware and two long-stemmed glasses plus two short glasses, one of each per patron. This restaurant balanced the casual Mykonian beachfront personality with an eclectic minimalist style that Macy could not help but admire.</p><p>Out of the corner of her eye, to Macy’s left was the restaurant’s grey stone walls, which opened out to a positively breathtaking panoramic view of the island, which included the upwards-sloping hillside overlooking the adjoining island town of Ano Mera, and more closely, the houses of Chora with their white-painted flat houses and distinctive smooth, and alternately angular and rounded, cobblestone paths.</p><p>Macy gasped. “Harry—” she was momentarily lost for words—“this is incredible.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Melanija's Song</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>28 Melanija’s Song</p><p>6:30 pm, <em>Noa Restaurant, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>Macy gasped. “Harry—” she was momentarily lost for words—“this is incredible. How did you find this place?”</p><p>Harry took her hand across the table. “I did as the tourists do, and bought a guidebook, which listed Noa as a top restaurant. I took a chance and called the restaurant earlier this afternoon, to see if I could book a reservation. Luckily, despite my terrible language skills, I was able to make myself understood, as the chef spoke English, thank goodness.”</p><p>“Very clever, Harry Greenwood,” Macy grinned. They were both given menus, and after a time of skimming through the seafood and other such delectables, they decided on their dinner and ordered.</p><p>They ordered grilled fresh calamari with seasonal vegetables, and the artistry was quite impressive; the calamari were arranged in a circle on a dark charcoal-colored flat plate that reminded her of volcanic ash, and there were spring greens and clovers interspersed, with what looked to be little comma-shaped dots of cocktail sauce on the outer edge of said plate. <em>If Maggie were here, she’d be snapping away for her Instagram feed</em>, Macy thought to herself.</p><p>7 pm, <em>Noa Restaurant, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>The next dishes to arrive were beef giouvetsi, a meat entrée with tomato sauce and a side of freshly-cooked orzo pasta (for Harry), and sea bass fillet with roasted artichoke hearts (for Macy). There was certainly something to be said for having fresh produce and a meal straight from the source, so to speak. Macy could not recall ever having a fresher sea bass, nor artichokes. The artichokes she observed when she went to the grocery store were tiny, overpriced, stubborn, spiky things that took too much time, for a rather underwhelming interior. The sea bass she lifted to her palate looked almost the pescatarian equivalent of pearly moonstone and must have been fished for a mere couple of hours earlier, at most. It was as if clouded sunshades had been lifted from her visage, and she could suddenly see how food was meant to be savored, instead of grabbed in the form of a rushed cup of coffee before running out of Vera Manor to vanquish the next monster. <em>She sighed in culinary bliss.</em></p><p>7:30 pm, <em>Noa Restaurant, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>Macy, for once in her frenetic life, was completely and utterly relaxed, as was Harry. The landscape to her left was blossoming into a multicolored sunset, with pineapple yellow, blood orange pink, and purple plum shades painted across the darkening sky. It was <em>so </em>refreshing to escape everyday life and just listen to the seagulls and the constant pattern of gently-crashing waves onto the sandy horizon. “Do we have to go back <em>right now?</em>” she asked, almost pleadingly, as the dinner completed.</p><p>“Not necessarily—let’s take a walk,” Harry replied, and so they found themselves walking back in the direction of Mykonos Town, where they heard hints of music emanating forth. Soon, they were upon the quaint town square, surrounded by glimmering tea lights and candles, and dancing couples, both young and old. Harry mentioned, “I think I heard this back in one of the shops earlier today—it’s called “<em>I’ll never be the same</em>,” by Melanija Paradis, vocals with background piano; I heard she writes stories about the magical world too.”</p><p>“Maybe she can write our life story,” Macy responded, somewhat intrigued.</p><p>“<em>Maybe,” </em>chuckled Harry. “It would definitely be one for the ages. Dance?” he offered his hand, and she took it, as they sauntered over to the dance floor, moving together in silence as the slow-but-steady music echoed into the late evening.</p><p><em>I’ll Never Be The Same—</em>Melanija Paradis</p><p>I took one step, looked to my left,</p><p>Saw my right path, the easy side, but</p><p>You were my chosen crossroads,</p><p>In my secret past by-and-by.</p><p> </p><p>I knew you once,</p><p>In a former life forever away.</p><p>I once hoped that you would stay,</p><p>But you ran far away…</p><p> </p><p>Into the sky…/Into the sky…./Into the sky…/Into the sky</p><p> </p><p>We took a chance, a century ago,</p><p>You moved fast and I moved slow.</p><p>Two wild wrongs made a right,</p><p>As we hoped and wept that fiery night.</p><p> </p><p>You burst into my life,</p><p>Capturing my soul,</p><p>You broke me apart,</p><p>But you also made me whole.</p><p> </p><p>And I’ll never be the same…</p><p>And I’ll never be the same…</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Notes:<br/>-I wrote "I'll Never Be The Same" lyrics envisioning just A) piano and vocals, but upon reading and rereading, figured that it could also B) be performed as a male/female duet, possibly C) with the addition of a stringed instrument (e.g. viola) at an elegant event that involves a tablecloth and fancy silverware ;)<br/>-Darcy's jazz lyric snippets are my original creativity at work.</p><p>Discussion:<br/>Symbolism and motifs: <br/>1. Rose quartz symbolizes universal love, along with harmony, peace, friendship, and healing. Where does rose quartz show up throughout the Jimmy/Darcy saga and elsewhere? How is rose quartz used in each instance?<br/>2. The color purple historically stands for wealth, but also, according to various sources, combines the calm of the color blue with the fiery passion of red, giving way to pride, mystery, and creativity. Where does this sense of creativity show up, and in what ways?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. A Letter to Matias</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>29 A Letter to Matias</p><p>Composed in the afternoon, Outside <em>To Vivlio Bookshop, Mykonos, Greece</em></p><p>
  <em>Dear Matias,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Happy 80<sup>th</sup> birthday!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Since you have finally reached age 80, it is time you learned the truth of how you came to Epicenter Pico 22, directly from us.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Long ago, there was a magical agreement, outside of our control, that you could not be visited by your rescuer, on risk of your death, until you reached age 80. The time has come. Dora and Della, your magical healer aunts, have hopefully filled you in on some or most of the details.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In July 1941, your extraordinarily brave mother was a singer at Tessera Nightclub in Manchester England, where she met Jimmy Westwell, a local actor. Though they only knew each other for mere weeks, they immediately fell in love and were altogether inseparable.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Jimmy was drawn to Tessera by magical means, to protect your mother before her predicted-by-Azorian soothsayer death. She entrusted you to the Sarcana in a local convent—but they betrayed her in the weeks leading up to her death, planning to turn you into a force of unbridled evil.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was Jimmy who held your mother in her last moments after she was struck by a passing war bomb, so she would not die alone. Then on her direction, Jimmy went to the convent and rescued you, a tiny baby, from the Sarcana. Jimmy only knew of you for those hours, but he loved you like a father in that short period of time.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I know you wonder why Jimmy didn’t think to write letters, or call, or email—but his memory was wiped by Elder Celeste, without his permission. He had planned to visit your mother’s grave and care for you in whatever way he could, but he never had that chance, because of Celeste.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Jimmy died 16 years after that, but Celeste brought him back to life as a Whitelighter, renamed Harry Greenwood. Even though Harry is over age 80, he has the appearance of a 37-year-old (magic is weird). </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Anyways—Harry would love to meet you again in person—to see how you are and to get to know the man you have undoubtedly become—to catch up on all of those stolen, lost years. As would I, since your mother Darcy was my great-great aunt. Just 2 years ago, I lost both of my parents, and discovered I had sisters. It was a lot to process, as I imagine it could be for you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s ok to be angry or confused or whatever you feel. Just know that we love you so much more than words can describe.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>If you want to meet us in person, let us know by writing back. Take your time.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Always your family,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Macy &amp; Harry</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Signed, Sealed, Delivered</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>30 Signed, Sealed, Delivered</p><p>
  <em>5:15 pm Pacific Daylight Time (PDT)/12:15 am Azores/3:15 am Greece, Vera Manor, Macy’s bedroom, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Harry and Macy orbed home to Vera Manor, thoroughly exhausted from their Grecian adventures; traveling between time zones truly sapped one’s energy to the core. Harry had read Macy’s heartfelt letter, and they had hand-delivered it together to Matias’ doorstep in the Azores at the stroke of midnight when he turned 80 years old. The envelope was a distinctive gold color, with a dark red seal impenetrable only by the true recipient himself, Matias.</p><p>Without bothering to undress into their pajamas, they promptly flopped onto Macy’s bed and were soon sound asleep, snoring quite loudly.</p><p>
  <em>8 am, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>The next morning, Harry and Macy quietly traversed the staircase into the kitchen; the table was covered in glass beakers, test tubes, bottles, and a two-foot stack of ancient texts that looked as though they belonged in the local natural history museum.</p><p>There was a sticky note on one of the test tubes. Intrigued, Macy read it.</p><p>“<em>I figured out how to merge Harry and Jimmy. Don’t you DARE move a thing from this table. -Mel”</em></p><p>Macy sighed. Her neat freak tendencies were heightened into overdrive, and she <em>really</em> wanted to grab a wet paper towel and wipe the entire counter surface clean with strong-smelling, lemon-scented disinfectant. Just then, she noticed Maggie, hidden behind the glass bottles and ancient texts, sipping her latte, her eyes not-so-subtly darting back and forth between Macy and Harry. “So, you guys, how was last night?”</p><p>“Ok, I suppose,” Macy responded somewhat casually, “if by ok, that means confronting a drunk-off-ouzo Celeste at the crack of dawn in her Mykonian retirement abode, remorseless about wiping Jimmy’s memory of my great-great aunt Darcy and her baby Matias, who Jimmy rescued from a Sarcana orphanage. Then writing a letter to said baby, who is now 80 years old and probably hates us for abandoning him.”</p><p>Maggie visibly flinched, then shoved her latte toward them. “Want a sip, Mace? You need this more than I do. Mel filled me in yesterday.”</p><p>“No, I’m good, thanks though,” responded Macy, who ventured over to the coffeemaker to create her daily brew of unadulterated caffeine, extra strong. “I don’t think I ever heard Harry curse so much in my life.”</p><p>
  <em>Noon, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Mel arrived home on her lunch break from working at Spellbound, slamming the front door shut and striding into the kitchen, where Maggie, Macy, and Harry were gathered. “Merging time!” she sang aloud. “Gonna see if these books work, glasses, bottles, and a,” here, she spun around and twerked.</p><p>“<em>Someone’s </em>been spending too much time in the magic lab,” said Maggie and Macy, both giving Mel a rather long side-eye.</p><p>“Or drinking too much caffeine,” said Harry. “Mel, what <em>was </em>your caffeine intake today?”</p><p>“Two cups of coffee, a shot of espresso, and an energy drink…<em>or two,</em>” replied Mel, currently still racing around the kitchen.</p><p>“Mel, are you sure you’re up to the spellwork?” asked Macy cautiously. “It’s ok if you’re not, I mean, it’s Harry’s safety we have to think of—”</p><p>Mel suddenly halted in her tracks, pivoted, and faced Macy. “I’m <em>fine</em>. More than fine. Enthusiastic, more like. I’ve <em>always </em>wanted to try this spell. Really, I’m good. I’m ok.” She took a few deep, soothing breaths. “<em>I got this</em>.”</p><p>
  <em>12:30 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Mel took a few of the glass bottles from the kitchen, while Maggie and Macy carried the ancient texts up to the attic, where Harry was waiting, pacing back and forth. Once they checked and double-checked that they had all of the necessary ingredients, they had Harry lay on the floor, with a chalk circle drawn around the outer perimeter of his body.</p><p>Then, Mel opened the most decrepit looking of the texts and began reading aloud; her sisters joined in as well.</p><p>
  <em>Merge Harry with Jimmy, two separated souls,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Amalgamate their light and dark roles.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Meld their bright and clever minds,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Agglutinate their body, heart, in kind.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Combine their spirit, soul rewind,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Unify Harry and Jimmy, let them be one,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Before the setting of this very sun.</em>
</p><p>Macy knew her solo role was coming up next; to lure Jimmy to the attic, she had to wear clothes similar to the ones she wore in her dream of Jimmy months ago, a low-cut silk garment and a thin black petticoat sweater. For this spell to work, Harry wasn’t supposed to know beforehand. She stepped out of the shadows, dropping her sweater on the ground, her breasts clinging tightly to the sensuous negligée. She continued chanting softly, oblivious to the fact that Harry was watching her every move, out of the corner of his eye (<em>and liked what he saw)</em>.</p><p>
  <em>12:45 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>The chanting grew louder, as phantom winds swirled and surrounded them; Maggie uncorked Jimmy’s bottle into the chalk circle, and soon there were two identical men in the space. Jimmy was putting up a struggle, screaming, trying to push his way out of the circle—banging his fists—but was mollified by the sight of Macy in her tight outfit, after she walked to the very edge of the chalk circle, close enough for her eyelashes to touch Jimmy’s, for her fingertips to lightly brush against his.</p><p>“<em>Please, Jimmy</em>,” she pleaded softly with Jimmy. “Do it for me. Do it so we can be together again.”</p><p>“For you? <em>Anything</em>.” And with that, Jimmy relinquished his fight, and his form grew less opaque and more transparent, as he stepped onto, and combined with, Harry’s physical body laying prone on the floor.</p><p>
  <em>12:50 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>“Did it work?” Macy asked cautiously. She, Maggie, and Mel walked closer to the circle from their previous stations throughout the attic. Jimmy’s form, transparent or otherwise, had disappeared, and all that remained was Harry’s motionless body. <em>Please be ok</em>, Macy thought to herself silently.</p><p>Just then, his body stirred. “Darcy?” Harry whispered, spotting Macy, their memories flooding back in droves.</p><p>“Jimmy,” Macy’s eyes teared up as they quickly embraced, as she too began having flashbacks she never knew was probable or even possible. A flash of a scene came before her of a plum-brocaded Mauve Flat, where Jimmy was regarding her with awe, saying “<em>hot damn, Darcy” </em>before their backstage date, the very same words Macy read from his mind as they exited the cemetery all that time ago, before heading to Galvin’s birthday party. Their outfits in those two separate instances had been virtually identical—Harry’s pinstripe suit and Macy’s pearl-colored floral dress. <em>How was this even possible? This defies every scientific law and theory imaginable. </em>Macy’s brain then rewound itself to the time in which the necromancer brought her limp, doll-sized body back to life; perhaps this Jimmy/Darcy resurgence of memories was one of the violations of laws of nature that Celeste alluded to, regarding the possibility of time loops. <em>Was it? </em>But all she knew was that her true love, Jimmy-turned-Harry-turned both was in front of her, however which way she looked at it. And she, Darcy-turned-Macy, was finally reunited at last with her long-lost soulmate.</p><p>After a moment’s pause, Macy and Harry broke down sobbing; Celeste’s spell was finally broken.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. When Two Become One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>31 When Two Become One</p><p>
  <em>12:50 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>After a moment’s pause, Macy and Harry broke down sobbing; Celeste’s spell was finally broken.</p><p>
  <em>4 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Mel knocked on Macy’s bedroom door, which was locked. “Macy, are you guys ok?” Macy had been holed up in there in complete darkness for the past couple of hours with Harry, both complaining of instantaneous headaches. They claimed to need some time to themselves, which Maggie and Mel were very understanding about. It wasn’t every day that a powerful Elder’s spell was broken, causing a century’s worth of memories to descend on a Whitelighter and a magical (though nevertheless moral) human female.</p><p>“Yes,” Macy answered, her voice slightly muffled under a throng of sheets. “We’re ok. Just need some peace and quiet for awhile—”</p><p>“Ok,” Mel answered. “Don’t do anything stupid, ok?” she walked away and went downstairs to read more of the faded, worn-out ancient texts still taking up residence in the kitchen.</p><p>
  <em>4:05 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Macy uncovered the blanket, where she and Harry had spent the past two hours nursing what felt like a cross between a hangover and a migraine. Maggie had slipped them both a couple of over-the-counter painkillers and a cold glass of water (she ran over to Jordan to borrow supplies from his first aid kit an hour ago). <em>Thank heavens it was finally starting to kick in.</em></p><p>
  <em>5 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Harry stirred, turning over in bed and blinking his eyes, reorienting himself in the darkness; the windows were firmly sealed shut, and the curtains blocked every inch of burgeoning sunlight threatening to spill into these particular confines of Vera Manor. Once he fully came to, he turned to his left; Macy was already awake, her curls surrounding her shoulders as they always did, in a form of graceful, organized chaos that Harry always secretly admired.</p><p>“I’m so confused, Harry,” her voice emanated in the darkness in his general direction. “Am I Macy? Am I Darcy, reborn? Did this violate the laws of nature, causing me to be stillborn? <em>Who am I?</em>” Macy pivoted toward Harry. “And I don’t know if you see me as Darcy—or Macy—you have so many memories of the past—will this hurt our ability to move forward?” her voice broke a little.</p><p>Instead of engaging an increasingly panicked Macy over this fruitless debate, Harry whispered—“Azores?” Macy nodded, a hint of a smile unfolding in the corners of her lips.</p><p>
  <em>5:15 pm PDT/12:15 am, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Hot Tub </em>
</p><p>After Harry and Macy hurriedly gathered their things (e.g., toiletries, swimsuit, and various and sundry items), they orbed directly into the entryway of Epicenter Pico No. 23, the home that Macy inherited awhile earlier, that had been passed down a multitude of Azorian Valensi women. Macy and Harry put their belongings down on the kitchen table; Harry removed the duffel bag he carried, unzipping it and placing a few items in the refrigerator (<em>he had snuck over to the Vera Manor kitchen earlier to grab a few necessary items when Mel was distracted by a test tube that suddenly glowed bright pink</em>).</p><p>Harry then proceeded through the screened door into the balcony hot tub, which Macy turned on (she was a firm believer in not wasting water). They sat just outside the hot tub for ten minutes in silence; Macy moved toward her cell phone and turned on a YouTube collection of Faouzia music, which began with the bold, intrepidly sensual “Tears of Gold” song, that sounded to Harry like Rihanna with the fierceness of Beyoncé mixed in. Harry was about to speak—to start discussing the logistics and complications of merging Jimmy with Harry, but Macy, sensing this, put her finger to his lips. “<em>Shhh…close your eyes” </em>Macy said, leading him into the hot tub as if indicating, <em>let’s get to know each other without words, shall we?</em></p><p>Once Harry’s eyes were closed, Macy ran her fingers gently through Harry’s hair, stroking his forehead, the shape of his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks, chin, kissing the sensitive area of his neck. <em>He shivered in anticipation</em>. Macy massaged his arms, feeling its texture, as droplets gathered on his biceps in tiny, uniform dots, speckled across like a crystal cobblestone path. She kissed each of those drops, from his elbow to his upper arm.</p><p>“<em>My turn</em>,” Harry whispered, taking a delicate tendril of Macy’s hair toward him, smelling the fragrant curls. He knew she was over-sensitive to cologne and avoided wearing heavy perfume, but her own natural scent was <em>utterly intoxicating</em>. He could feel himself harden against her, and she knew it too, as she moved to graze his collarbone, adding a love bite every now and then, intertwining her fingertips with the dark hair situated at the very nape of his neck, as her lips, full of her kisses, went upward, as she whispered softly into his ear, “<em>Take me</em>.”</p><p>
  <em>5:17 pm PDT/12:17 am, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington </em>
</p><p>Mel continued to examine the properties of a test tube that suddenly glowed bright pink. “<em>Pink, pink, pink, where had she last seen that color?” </em>she thought to herself, frantically flipping through the tomes. Coughing from the dust, she finally found a color symbology page that detailed the after-effects of a merging spell. Skimming through, she saw exactly what she was looking for, and gasped.</p><p>She raced to Maggie’s room, pounding the door so hard that it shook with the effort. Maggie opened the door, as if to issue a retort, but took one look at Mel’s face and fell silent. “W-what is it Mel?” Mel shoved the book toward her and pointed at the pink-glowing test tube that she held in her hand. Maggie read the symbology text, and visibly blanched. <em>“Oh shit,” </em>she muttered.</p><p>“We need to tell Macy. <em>ASAP.</em>” Maggie nodded, and they sped back to the kitchen to gather the rest of the books, before racing over to Macy’s room.</p><p>
  <em>5:18 pm PDT/12:18 am, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Hot Tub </em>
</p><p>Harry deftly swept Macy off her feet, and she suddenly found herself straddling him, <em>sensing his sheer wanting, his urgent anguish against her</em> as she slowly guided him in—and instead of the “<em>do you like it?” </em>customary of the polite, diffident, sweet Whitelighter Harry Greenwood she once knew, Macy felt him, this <em>man</em>, slam into her with unmitigated, unrelentingly desperate passion. “<em>Fuck</em>,” she gasped aloud, as Harry pounded himself into her; equally aroused, she met his wanting with a force she never knew she had. The water droplets surrounding their bodies had, unbeknownst to them, paused in their tracks, seized upward, and were now noiselessly hovering unsupported in the air, akin to dancing beaded fragments floating within a glass snow globe.</p><p>
  <em>5:19 pm PDT/12:19 am, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Hot Tub </em>
</p><p><em>Was it the fact that Jimmy was merged into Harry, that having Harry inside of her felt this damn good? </em>Macy thought to herself, as they both groaned with pleasure; she felt him as she usually did, but this time, it seemed as though there was no barrier between them at all. <em>She could feel the heated smoothness of his delicate head, hammering into her very being, their hearts melting together in a passionate, timeless amalgamation of fervor. Macy could sense his familiar, warm, approaching apex, the very reach of the pinnacled summit, that had a new and altogether vulnerable sense of nakedness about it. </em>She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something felt very different and strange, though not entirely unwelcome.</p><p>Suddenly, Harry grasped her curls in a fist, and pulled, eliciting a gasp from Macy; once again making eye contact, <em>she understood, </em>biting his shoulder, allowing his spurts to devour, or combine with her essence from within, as they came together simultaneously, causing the suspended droplets of water to crash in a gushing torrent around them.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Author's Note<br/>I actually struggled a bit writing this particular scene at first, but then I recalled Rupert Evans (celebrity who plays Harry on Charmed CW), re: an April 13th TVLine  article on directing S2E18. I thought about what I would do if I were in his shoes for the briefest of moments, post-Harry/Jimmy merge. I considered a few aspects, (i.e. cinematography, music, art direction, visual/special effects), to address the question: just how would Harry and Macy get to know each other again? </p><p>The music came to me purely by serendipity, after watching an episode of AGT 2020. Intrigued by the lyrics, I looked up the artist, Faouzia, and found an accompanying YouTube music video for the song "Tears of Gold." The rest of this chapter basically wrote itself after that ;)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Call the Apothecary</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>32 Call the Apothecary</p><p>
  <em>5:20 pm PDT/12:20 am, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington </em>
</p><p>“We need to tell Macy. <em>ASAP.</em>” Maggie nodded, and they sped back to the kitchen to gather the rest of the books. After gathering them in their arms, they raced to Macy’s bedroom, and began pounding on her door, shouting for her and Harry to come out <em>now, </em>this <em>very instant</em>, for a very important family meeting. “HARRY! MACY!” they hollered together.</p><p>
  <em>5:20 pm PDT/12:20 am, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Hot Tub </em>
</p><p>Harry jerked up, startled. “What is it?” Macy inquired, as they lay soaking in their afterglow ensconced in the steaming bubbles of the hot tub.</p><p>“Maggie and Mel. They’re screaming for us to have an urgent family meeting. I think something’s wrong,” he looked at Macy, concerned. In response, Macy used telekinesis to conjure a beach towel from the main entryway. Drying themselves off, they entered back through the screen door, carefully laying the wet towel on the ecru barstool chair; Harry was going to place various fridge items in his duffel bag, but decided against it, figuring they would have time for that later. Instead, he grabbed Macy’s arm and they orbed into the upstairs bathroom back at Vera Manor.</p><p>
  <em>5:21 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>“What’s wrong, Mel?” asked Harry and Macy. “Did something happen?” The two stepped out of the hallway bathroom, their hair sopping wet, only to find her sisters in her empty, darkened bedroom staring at them as if Macy and Harry had four heads.</p><p>Trying to ignore the fact that Harry and Macy appeared to have exited the bathroom together after probably <em>taking a bath together</em>, involving <em>shenanigans </em>in the same place her other sisters took showers—<em>eww…</em> Mel abruptly stood up and called for a family meeting at 5:30. Everyone agreed and went about their way.</p><p>
  <em>5:30 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Macy and Harry sat on the living room couch, across from where Maggie and Mel were seated. “What’s up?” asked Macy curiously.</p><p>“<em>This.” </em>Mel held out a glass test tube that was emitting a curiously bright shade of pink.</p><p>“A pink test tube?” Macy rolled her eyes. “<em>Really? </em>We were summoned for an urgent family meeting because of a <em>test tube?</em>”</p><p>“It’s quite a lovely pink,” Harry stated, a twinkle in his eye.</p><p>Mel ignored Macy and Harry, and continued. “The color symbology book I read indicates that there are certain…<em>let’s just say…</em>side effects, that occurred as a result of Jimmy merging into Harry.”</p><p>Macy’s eyes fell upon Harry’s in concern. “Oh no—what’s wrong with Harry’s body?”</p><p>Maggie spoke up. “It’s not Harry, Macy, it’s <em>you</em>.”</p><p>
  <em>5:32 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Macy felt the intensity of three pairs of eyes staring straight at her, as her hands began to grow clammy, and her voice turned a notch higher, from a heightened level of sudden anxiety. “What do you mean, <em>me?</em>”</p><p>Maggie appeared more than slightly uncomfortable at this point, so Mel took the reins once more. “What Maggie’s trying to say is, due to the—<em>ahem</em>—extraordinarily romantic century-long enchanted history between Darcy and Jimmy, the merging spell affected both your respective body chemistries, removing any spell that was on either of you.”</p><p>Macy and Harry turned to each other quizzically, then back at Mel. <em>Just what was Mel implying exactly? </em>“All spells,” Maggie elaborated. “<em>All </em>spells big or small, fancy or not, protective or—<em>ummm</em>—<em>contraceptive </em>included,” she finished off in little more than a whisper, praying silently she would not have to stoop to explaining the “magical” birds and the bees to her older sister. <em>This was not the role she envisioned herself having, as the littlest sister of the famed Charmed Ones.</em></p><p>“Hold up—” Macy exclaimed. “Are you telling me—” speaking to both of her sisters, “—that my contraceptive spell wore off because Jimmy merged with Harry?!” They nodded. “Well,” Macy mused, half to herself, <em>“that </em>certainly explains the last hour.” Harry shifted awkwardly in his seat, choosing at that precise moment to stare at a blank spot on the adjoining wall, hoping nobody would notice.</p><p>“So I would highly, <em>highly</em> suggest, that in the meantime, while waiting for your bodies to acclimate and accept new spells, which might or might not be possible due to the merging,” Mel went on, “that you use barrier protection.”</p><p>Macy sighed. She was trying to stay undercover, she did not want to risk Celeste spotting Harry with a boxful of condoms at the local drugstore under <em>any </em>circumstances, and had no idea how any of this would be feasibly resolved. But then, Maggie had an idea, as if reading Macy’s feelings of creeping anxiety and first-world hopelessness. “I’ll order it online Mace,” Maggie said. “It’ll arrive at my office mailbox in a plain brown box, and I’ll bring it home. It’s what sisters do.”</p><p>“Thanks a ton, Mags. I owe you, <em>I really do.</em>”</p><p>
  <em>8 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Macy opened the porch door, and shut it softly behind her, and met Harry, who was outside, holding a glass of wine under the glimmering tealights and encroaching ivy. “Well, <em>that </em>was incredibly awkward,” she said, looking directly at him, as if to gauge his response.</p><p>“Awkward, yes,” Harry replied, “but probably necessary—you are quite lucky to have two sisters who care about you so much.” He paused for a bit, gently swishing the thin-stemmed glass of Cabernet he had with him, to bring out its aroma further.</p><p>After several more minutes, Harry continued talking. “About that pink test tube—”</p><p>Macy attempted a laugh. “Forget about it—”</p><p>“No, Macy, I don’t want to forget about it,” Harry spoke firmly, and a jolt of cosmic electricity made her spine tingle and her toes curl, ever-so-slightly.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. JHMD: The Damask Discussion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>33 JHMD: The Damask Discussion</p><p>
  <em>8 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>After several more minutes, Harry continued talking. “About that pink test tube—”</p><p>Macy attempted a laugh. “Forget about it—”</p><p>“No, Macy, I don’t want to forget about it,” Harry spoke firmly, and a jolt of cosmic electricity made her spine tingle and her toes curl, ever-so-slightly. “What if you’re pregnant right now?”</p><p>Macy shocked, thought he was joking, but she realized that he was serious. “Honestly, according to my cycle tracker app, I’m past my ovulation date so I know that’s out of the question. But even if I were, I worry about repeating Marisol’s history and having a stillbirth. I would have stress-induced panic attacks about the fact my genetics business is just starting. And the lack of legal security—I’m not married, and I wouldn’t feel 100% secure knowingly bringing a child into this world neither engaged nor married. I know people do nowadays, and that’s a personal decision, but <em>I am. An overplanner</em>. Oh, and we have no place of our own. <em>My anxiety would be through the roof. </em>I mean,” she said, surveying the intricate gables of the house’s exterior, “Vera Manor <em>is</em> charming in a Victorian way, don’t get me wrong, but it would get crowded with four people and a baby—”</p><p>Harry interrupted her. “How would <em>you</em>, Macy Vaughn, feel? All of the above reasons don’t tell me about what you yourself would think, in your heart of hearts.”</p><p>“Well…” Macy paused, and reflected for a few moments before finally speaking. “Assuming the reasons I gave were resolved, so I had less anxiety (<em>avoiding, in turn, stressing out said hypothetical baby</em>), I would still be really surprised and maybe kind of scared if I found out I was unexpectedly pregnant. <em>How can I be a good mother when my own mom left me at age 2? </em>I <em>don’t</em> know to be a mother. But something tells me, deep down,” her voice wavered, then grew resolute. “I would be really, really happy—to be having this baby, with you being his or her father. In the grand scheme of things, I know I could handle this. You?”</p><p>“Truth be told,” said Harry, peering into his glass and back at Macy, “I’d be absolutely delighted—after getting over the initial shock, of course. Even though Jimmy didn’t have the best track record, I know you would keep me in line, and I know that you would make an amazing mother someday.”</p><p>“Really?” Macy teared up a bit.</p><p>“Beyond a doubt.” Harry kissed her. An idea occurred to him, and he whispered in her ear, “go grab your journal.” Macy looked at him questioningly, but did as he requested, returning with a couple of pens, just in case.</p><p>
  <em>8:30 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Macy opened her journal to the next blank page, wondering what Harry was about to have her do. He asked if he could take a pen and start writing. She nodded, noting that this was the first time any man she had ever dated knew about, let alone <em>saw the inside of</em>, her precious notebook with her innermost thoughts.</p><p>Harry jotted down a few bullets under the header entitled “<em>Timeline”</em>:</p><p>
  <em>-Genetics Business: Goal: launch business successfully, to make extra money</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Legal: Short-Term Goal: get engaged | Long-Term Goal: get married </em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Property: Short-Term Goal: spruce up the Azores property | Long-Term Goal: have a place of our own (e.g., Vera Manor renovations and/or live in the Azores)</em>
</p><p>Harry looked toward at Macy. “Does that sound about right?” he inquired. She said yes; Harry handed her back the notebook, and Macy scribbled some quick numbers, making a few calculations in her head.</p><p>
  <em>-Genetics Business: 3-5 months</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Legal: Short-Term Goal: get engaged | Long-Term Goal: get married (1-2 years??) (kids: 2??)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Property: Short-Term Goal: spruce up the Azores property (1 busy month)| Long-Term Goal: have a place of our own (1 busy month)</em>
</p><p>The specified timelines being written, Macy gave Harry her notebook for one last review. He appeared to agree with the genetics business timetable and the property timetable. Both goals were almost entirely launched to completion—<em>why on earth had Macy gone into such a panic? </em></p><p>His eyes fell on the “<em>Legal” </em>timeline. “Two kids sound manageable, and fun,” he smiled, and Macy, anxious to see what he thought, breathed just a tiny sigh of relief that they were on the same page about that. However, he shook his head at the “1-2 years??” component. Macy’s face fell.</p><p>“I know we’re getting used to our Jimmy-Harry-Macy-Darcy bit,” she rapidly spoke, trying to hide her nervousness. “I thought maybe a couple of years to acclimate? Maybe it’s too short a time? I just jotted down what came through my mind—”</p><p>“Let’s make that time shorter, shall we?” Harry’s eyes shone as he quieted Macy with his reply. “If you and I are both tabulating this correctly, you are 29, I am 37. If we were to wait two years to get married, and be married for a bit before having kids, and we wanted them spaced out by three years?” Macy followed his train of thought<em>. </em>“Macy—that means one of our children would be born when you are 35, at advanced maternal age. I would be 43. There are elevated health risks to having older parents.”</p><p>“I know,” remarked Macy. <em>How would they come to a consensus?</em></p><p>“But,” continued Harry, “if we wait half a year to be married, etc., to give time for your genetics business to take off, and for us to spruce up the property, we can have kids earlier, and start our lives as a married couple. That means having a child at 30 or at latest, 33 for you, and I would be 38 and 41, respectively, assuming all of this goes according to plan.” He turned a page in Macy’s journal, and rewrote the timeline as such:</p><p>
  <em>-Genetics Business: successfully launch (3-5 months)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Legal: get engaged | get married (6 months) </em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Property: spruce up the Azores property (1 busy month)</em>
</p><p>Macy stared at him, stunned. <em>Was he moving the timeline along—faster? </em>Hope surged into her very being. A sudden thought did occur to her though; for them to be married several months from now, they would need to be engaged. “Before a wedding, isn’t someone typically engaged? How would that..<em>er…happen, </em>hypothetically speaking?”</p><p>“Yes, Macy, that would certainly look to be the case. I’ll take care of <em>that</em> part, if you devote yourself to your genetics business. And we can fix up the Azores home together during the next weekends, bit-by-bit, while we monitor for a response from Matias. How does that sound?”</p><p>Macy was rendered speechless; this sounded too good to be true. “Isn’t this—isn’t this a bit fast, Harry? You could have sustained a head injury, are you sure this isn’t the merging talking?”</p><p>But Harry shook his head. “We’ve waited for each other for a hundred years. There’s no reason to wait any longer.” And with that, he brought forth a flat box, 3x3 inches, and told Macy to close her eyes. She did, and he clasped the delicate silver necklace around her smooth neck. “Open your eyes.”</p><p>Macy did so, and looked at the silver necklace’s single, large bead—it appeared to be—<em>she held it in her hand, turning it over</em>—a…<em>honeycomb? </em>No. <em>Wait a second…this looked familiar. </em>“The molecular structure of oxytocin, the love chemical!” she laughed aloud. “Harry, how did you…?”</p><p>“Jimmy had a natural knack for silversmithing and jewelry design, when he made Darcy’s engagement ring decades ago, so I figured I’d give it a try in my spare time. I want to show you that I meant every word I said just now. Think of it as—” he pondered for a second, “—<em>a promise ring</em>, except in the form of a necklace. A sign we’re in it together for the long haul. Do you like it?”</p><p>Macy embraced him. <em>“I love it,” </em>she whispered.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>34. JHMD: An Interrogation by the Weird Sisters</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>34 JHMD: An Interrogation by the Weird Sisters</p><p>
  <em>8:30 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Little did Harry and Macy know that they both had a captive audience. “<em>OMGOMGOMGOMG,” </em>breathed Maggie, watching the scene unfold. <em>She thought she might be hyperventilating. Just. A. Teensy. Tiny. Bit.</em></p><p>“What now?” huffed Mel, impatiently awaiting the results of her additional potion experimentations following the apparent success of the merge. She silently wondered to herself if she could add this to her resume:<em> successfully reunited a centuries-long separated soul fragment with its good-hearted owner and broke an Elder’s memory-wipe curse in the process, reviving a century-long love story. </em></p><p>“<em>I think he’s proposing!!!” </em>Maggie yelped, darting for the nearest window, Mel following suit, forgetting completely about her ambitious, embellished resume edits; several seconds passed by, as they saw Harry show Macy a mysterious 3x3 inch flat box. “Oh wait…” she looked closer, slightly deflated. “I don’t think that’s a ring…” Mel jostled her, trying to peer over her shoulder into the somewhat-lit backyard.</p><p>“Wait, so <em>is he or isn’t he proposing?</em>” Mel hissed. “Let. <em>Me. See,” </em>Mel accidentally tripped over Maggie’s foot and went toppling onto the floor.</p><p>“OW—MEL!” shrieked Maggie. “That hurt!”</p><p>“Sorry,” Mel appeared apologetic enough, but continued to direct her distracted gaze outward. Neither Macy nor Harry had noticed a thing, as they appeared to be extremely engrossed in each other’s words. “Oh, it looks like a necklace, Harry’s putting it around her neck, I think,” Mel squinted, trying to make out the exact pattern, shading, size, or any other number of distinguishable characteristics of the jewelry piece.</p><p>“She’s wearing it…” Maggie whispered. “She’s smiling. Like, <em>a lot.</em>” Maggie and Mel noticed that Harry and Macy looked as though they were about to kiss, so they turned away to give them privacy.</p><p>“Definitely beats her reaction to Julian’s,” Mel stated, matter-of-factly. Maggie agreed. <em>But they needed more information. </em></p><p>
  <em>10 pm, One Week Later, Vera Manor, Harry’s Interrogation, Living Room</em>
</p><p>Harry had been summoned to the living room by a chorus cry of “<em>Harry!”</em>; immediately orbing to the specified location, he noticed that the once-cozy room now appeared dimly-lit, in the manner and appearance of a police interrogation room. <em>What on earth was going on?!</em> </p><p>“Tea, Harry?” Mel pushed a ceramic mug in his general direction, gesturing for him to sit on the couch opposite her. He sat, and took a sip of the proffered beverage, then sat it back down on the coffee table. Harry noticed that Maggie had quickly muttered a hex of some kind, blocking any possible exit Harry might have had from the living room’s general vicinity.</p><p>“Girls,” Harry tried to sound as calm as reasonably possible. “What on earth is going on?” He knew that Macy was working with two genetics business clients in the she-shed, and it appeared that whatever hex Maggie had placed on the room was sound-proof as well. <em>What did Maggie and Mel mean to do to him?</em></p><p>Maggie took a seat next to Mel, directly across from Harry; all was dark save for the coffee table between them, and the silence was all but deafening. “Well, <em>Harry,</em>” said Mel, “we want to know exactly what your intentions are for our much-beloved, intelligent, beautiful sister Macy.”</p><p>“I gave Macy a promise necklace a week ago to signify our love, and we agreed on mutual timelines that include legalities, property, and career aspirations.” Harry knew something was up—he had not been planning to tell Maggie or Mel anything about Macy’s timelines; he felt those were of an extremely personal nature.</p><p>“So. <em>Timelines,”</em> Maggie piped up. “How long does this involve Macy waiting, marriage-wise? Years? Decades?” or, she posited, “another <em>century</em>? She hasn’t got all day, you know—”</p><p>“Six months,” Harry cringed—he was revealing way, <em>way </em>too much. Mel and Maggie looked quite surprised; in all honesty, they thought he and Macy were going at it like rabbits indefinitely, and perhaps this was a mere fling that would leave Macy heartbroken. <em>Hmm…</em>thought Mel. <em>This is certainly getting interesting. </em></p><p>Harry continued, despite his better judgment; the truth serum certainly had a kick to it. “Macy and I mutually agreed we would marry once she launched her genetics business using the garden shed in the backyard as her home office, which would take 3-5 months, and after we spruced up Epicenter Pico No. 23 as a place of our own—”</p><p>Maggie and Mel were surprised; had Macy decided to leave Vera Manor? “What is this “Epicenter Pico?”” asked Mel, attempting to sound calm.</p><p>“It’s a small apartment-sized condo in the Azores Islands that Macy inherited from her father when he died; it was passed down generationally through all of her Valensi ancestors, though Vera Manor is also our home” Harry replied, matter-of-factly.</p><p>“Do you use the condo now?” Maggie asked.</p><p>“Yes, in a matter of speaking, it is, more or less, Macy’s sex dungeon.” <em>Harry buried his face in his hands. Oh God. This could not be happening right now. Blasted truth serum. He mentally scolded himself; how could he have been so foolish as to drink a cup of tea that he himself did not brew?</em></p><p>Maggie and Mel felt incredibly awkward, and almost sorry for having subjected Harry to interrogation-by-truth serum. Granted, they did have their initial doubts about Harry, and whether this was just a short-lived, sorely ill-advised fling, but he and Macy sounded like they were definitely planning a wedding in the near-to-distant future, and it seemed that their intimate lives were, in fact, thriving<em> quite </em>nicely.</p><p>Mel, however, had a final question she needed to ask. “How do you, Harry Greenwood, feel about Macy?”</p><p>Harry looked her straight in the eye and responded without a moment’s hesitation. “She is the very air I breathe, my reason for being, and the goddess I adore, from her luscious curls to the tapered, ballerina toes in which she graces my path each and every single day. I plan to marry her soon, try my hardest to make her the happiest woman alive, and someday, hopefully, be lucky enough to be the father of her children, who I know will be as utterly lovely as her.”</p><p>Mel and Maggie teared up. “Harry, that was…<em>beautiful,</em>” Maggie said, and Mel agreed. Maggie turned toward the exits, muttered a few words, and the hex disappeared. He was a free man, once more.</p><p>“Oh, and Harry—” Maggie said with a smirk, “these came in the mail,” as she tossed him a plain brown box, which undoubtedly held the condoms she had ordered several days beforehand.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>35. JHMD: Niceties of a Nonagenarian</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>35 JHMD: Niceties of a Nonagenarian</p><p>
  <em>6:30 am PDT/1:30 pm, Two Weeks Later, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23</em>
</p><p>Harry and Macy woke up early and orbed to Epicenter Pico No.23 to further spruce up the condo, which, up until previously, had been rather sparsely decorated. Macy had been too scared to put any valuables in the bedroom, but Maggie had texted her links awhile ago to mixed-fabric pillows that were a bold color, contrasting with the neutral wall’s paint. Macy’s genetics business was doing quite nicely, so she purchased a few of those pillows with her hard-earned cash, along with various other bedding items. She had read awhile ago that the color blue was healthy to have in one’s bedroom, due to its calming sense of ambiance; it reminded her of the ocean view from the balcony.</p><p>After Harry’s interrogation, neither Maggie nor Mel expressed any interest in visiting Epicenter Pico No. 23 (<em>“he called it a sex dungeon—TMI,” </em>said Maggie to Mel). They were perfectly happy to let Macy and Harry have their intimate space; as long as the couple didn’t disrupt Vera Manor with loud, raucous wall-banging activities, the girls felt Harry and Macy were grown adults who could very well do as they pleased. Truth be told, Mel was <em>extremely </em>relieved that Harry and Macy weren’t going at it in the shared bathroom shower, as she was, after all, a self-described germophobe.</p><p>
  <em>2 pm, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23</em>
</p><p>Once the pillows and cozy bedding were arranged in the bedroom, Macy and Harry unpacked a teakettle and a few different selections of tea from the extremely heavy duffle bags they had brought with them. Harry filled the teakettle with water, and Macy retrieved peppermint tea bags, steeping them to make peppermint tea. She gathered tea biscuits (<em>Harry liked the cream-filled ones</em>), fruit <em>(both grocery and tropical</em>), nuts, bread, peanut butter, kitchen utensils, and disposal bags from her own duffle bag and placed them where they belonged around the kitchen; at the last minute, she sliced a piece of fruit to go with the peppermint tea. Macy wasn’t sure whether to transport meat and other perishables, since she didn’t know how often she would be coming to Epicenter Pico before it was completely suitable for long-term habitability. <em>Was this a preview to married life? </em>Macy wondered to herself, thinking perhaps she would title a new journal entry as “2 pm, Azores: Moved in, sort of, with Mr. Harry Greenwood.” <em>She grinned and continued unpacking.</em></p><p>
  <em>2:30 pm, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23</em>
</p><p>Macy and Harry heard a faint knock at the door and heard a <em>whoosh</em>. They hurried to the front door and opened it, but nobody was there. Just then, Macy crouched onto the floor, spotting the source of the sound. It was a plain white envelope, addressed simply to “Macy &amp; Harry.” “Open it,” urged Harry. So she did. The letter read as follows, in shaky, arthritic handwriting:</p><p>
  <em>Dear Macy and Harry,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thank you for the birthday greeting, and for reaching out. I have led a simple life, here on the islands. Dora and Della were wonderful parents to me. Your account matches up. I would like to meet you—would today work? I know it’s sudden, but I work at the outdoor market and my hours can be long. Let me know by knocking on my door. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>-M</em>
</p><p>
  <em>3 pm, Madalena Village, Azores, Outside Epicenter Pico No. 22</em>
</p><p>Macy and Harry each counted to ten silently, then knocked crisply a couple of times on the front door. A second or two passed, perhaps a minute more, then—</p><p>The door opened. <em>It was Matias.</em></p><p>He had closely-cropped silver hair that showed the hint of a distinctive curl that seemed familiar to Macy, was of a healthy size and build, likely from hoisting up crops and herbs all those years, and his eyes were a startling slate grey that caused Harry to have a double-take. His complexion was a deep tan reminiscent of the Greek Mediterranean populace. He had a warm smile, and he enveloped Macy and Harry in a tight hug. <em>There wasn’t a dry eye.</em></p><p>Once they said their greetings, Matias bade them come in; he strode past his nondescript carpeted living room into the unadorned yellowing linoleum kitchen, bare save for a stained-glass religious relic nailed to the room’s threshold (<em>“from my niece during her Madrid trip,” </em>he said). He reached under the kitchen table and pulled out an old canvas satchel and purple-brocaded sling. “My aunts told me that you, Harry, dropped me off here with both.”</p><p>For several long minutes, Harry stared hard at the satchel and sling, as his memories flickered like a View-Master within his eyesight, akin to cinematic format. “I was getting ready to use a marble to transport myself to your aunt’s place; I held your late mother’s body in a dark purple tapestry,” he stated, stroking the aged linen with his fingers slowly. “You were a tiny baby, sound asleep as I ripped a piece of curtain to hold you in a sling against me, to make sure you were safe while we portaled.”</p><p>“The canvas bag,” Matias said. “What was that for?” Harry picked up the bag, now wrinkled and creased, running his thumb down the coarse stitching, ruminating for some time, as Macy watched the two interact.</p><p>“The canvas bag held mixed powdered milk in a thermos in case you grew hungry.” He turned his gaze toward Matias. “I didn’t know what I was doing back then—all I knew was that I had to keep you safe at all costs.”</p><p>Matias nodded. “My aunts told me. And thank you for keeping me safe. I’ve led a good life here. Europe was bomb-riddled back then, so I’d heard.”</p><p>
  <em>4 pm, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 22</em>
</p><p>“Speaking of your life here, I’ve heard that you sell your wares at the local market?” Harry asked, inquisitively. In response, Matias gathered his dried spices from a hook-locked kitchen cabinet, showing Macy and Harry how he would de-stem them and lay the delicate fronds on the kitchen table, with pre-cut twine for making individually wrapped bundles he knew would charm the mainland tourists.</p><p>“I sell these; tourists love to buy them to show folks back on the mainland,” Matias mentioned. Harry reached over and hugged Macy’s shoulder.</p><p>“Matias, I wish I knew to visit you, all these years—” Harry began.</p><p>“You’re both here now, and that’s what matters,” Matias said simply. “I don’t have many years left, but I’d like to get to know you and Macy with the ones I do have.”</p><p>“I have two sisters, Mel and Maggie, who would like to meet you too. Would you be open to that?” Macy asked hesitantly.</p><p>“Yes, I would,” Matias smiled. “Besides my marketplace pal and childhood neighbor Morgana, it’s been a very quiet few decades here.”</p><p>“That can be arranged,” Harry murmured quietly. He orbed back to Vera Manor to pick up Mel and Maggie, and returned several minutes later in the doorway, (<em>it wasn’t polite, after all, to orb directly into another’s home without explicit permission</em>).</p><p>
  <em>4:10 pm, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 22</em>
</p><p>Mel and Maggie cautiously stepped forward and made as though to shake Matias’ hand, but he hugged them straightaway, and they reciprocated. They noted that he had hair similar to Macy’s, with eyes that appeared somewhat familiar (<em>where had they seen that particular color before?</em>), and looked as though he were of Southern Mediterranean descent, with his olive-toned skin. <em>Strong genes,</em> Maggie thought to herself. <em>If this is what Darcy’s baby grew up to be, Macy and Harry’s future babies would be robust, she was sure of it.</em></p><p>
  <em>6 pm, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23</em>
</p><p>After Macy, Harry, Mel and Maggie spent time at Matias’ home (“<em>please come and visit me at the market soon!” </em>he had said)<em>, </em>they walked next door to Macy’s Epicenter Pico No. 23 condo. She promised Mel and Maggie that “<em>no it was not a sex dungeon</em>,” and “<em>yes she needed style expertise in person</em>.”</p><p>
  <em>1 pm PDT/8 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>The entourage of four orbed back to Vera Manor to have a late lunch. Maggie gathered Macy in a corner of the (<em>now somewhat scrubbed</em>) kitchen table to excitedly discuss Pinterest decorating ideas for the condo, curtains, sconces included, as Mel and Harry watched from a distance.</p><p>“Is this the end of the Charmed Ones as we know it?” Mel wistfully asked.</p><p>“No—quite the contrary,” said Harry knowingly. “<em>It is just the beginning</em>.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0036"><h2>36. JHMD: A Cosmopolitan Coven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>36 JHMD: A Cosmopolitan Coven</p><p>
  <em>6 am PDT/3 pm France, Three Weeks Later, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Macy curled up in the warm, soft covers of her bedsheets, enmeshed in her slumber. All was still in Vera Manor (<em>or so she thought)</em>, her business clients wouldn’t be contacting her for cell sequencing for another several hours at least, the Bram Castle vampire was laid to rest for the seventh time, and she could <em>finally</em> allow herself just those two extra hours to sleep in that she had eagerly anticipated for the past week.</p><p>She suddenly felt a finger tapping her awake. <em>What now? </em>Macy turned over in the bed, attempting to reposition herself away from the annoying intruder, but it was of no use—she felt her downy pillow unceremoniously ripped out from over her head, and the bright lighting glared up from overhead. <em>What the—? </em></p><p>“Get up,” ordered Mel.</p><p>“<em>Now,</em>“ said Maggie. “Do I need to use the spray bottle?” Maggie brandished a clear plastic bottle as if to spritz Macy with ice-cold water.</p><p>“Ugh, <em>you two are SO mean sometimes…</em>” muttered sleep-deprived Macy. “This had better be good.”</p><p>
  <em>3:30 pm Paris, France, Coven Coffee</em>
</p><p>After portaling from the Command Center, Maggie consulted her iPhone and enunciated the word “coffee,” hoping that Siri (<em>French: Mademoiselle Siri?</em>) would steer her in the right direction. Turning two corners past the Seine River, and a swerve past the Quai du Louvre street post, she made another right near a marble statue of St. Genevieve and came face-to-face with Coven Coffee, with Mel and Macy close behind, trying to keep up with her speedwalking.</p><p>“Maggie,” asked Macy curiously. “How did <em>you</em> find out about Coven Coffee?”</p><p>“I had to help the ghost of Gérard de Nerval find his pet lobster in the 4<sup>th</sup> arrondissement,” Maggie replied, matter-of-factly. “It was every bit as weird as you’d expect. Told him to stop harassing the theater patrons too. I found his lobster and he took me here to refuel.” Macy and Mel exchanged quizzical looks, then shrugged. <em>Plausible enough.</em></p><p>They pushed the shop door open, as the overhead chime rang, and the Charmed trio heard the beginning lyrics of Melanija Paradis’ latest song, which belted out fiercely over the sound of tin canisters and pressurized espresso machines.</p><p>
  <em>…To fight for joy, the right to be alone,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yet with my warrior clan,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They say blood runs thicker,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But you drown me in quicksand.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Heroes come in all sizes,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They always seem so wise,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>One for all, all for one,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>These are our battle cries…(3x)</em>
</p><p>After everyone placed and obtained their orders at the counter, they sat on stools, Macy in the center, facing the window that was directly in front of them. Maggie ordered a latte that had the Eiffel Tower drawn in (<em>she snapped an Instagram photo</em>), Mel ordered a Vienna-style cappuccino that came with a small glass of water and a lozenge-sized piece of dark chocolate, and Macy ordered a vegan Noisette (French espresso with a dash of coconut cream).</p><p>Several minutes of silence ensued as the three delicately sipped their warm beverages. This, however, was suddenly interrupted by Mel, who spotted Macy wearing the necklace that Harry had given her. “Ooooo…<em>shiny,</em>” Mel remarked, pulling the silvery bauble closer, and nearly choking Macy in the process.</p><p>“Do you mind?” Macy massaged her neck. “Some of us are trying to cultivate cosmopolitan ambiance here,” she stated, mock-jokingly. Mel dropped the necklace bead, but continued to examine it closely, between tiny sips of her cappuccino.</p><p>“Is that—” Maggie tilted her head “—a <em>honeycomb?</em>”</p><p>Macy shook her head. “It’s the molecular structure of oxytocin, the…<em>um…love</em> hormone,” she shyly admitted. Mel and Maggie gave each other a not-so-subtly furtive look. “What was that look?” Macy asked. “You just gave each other <em>a look.</em>”</p><p>“Nothing!” chorused Mel and Maggie, who turned their attention to their respective caffeinated drinks, grinning to themselves all the while. When their drinks were roughly 1/3 finished, they continued their conversation.</p><p>
  <em>4 pm Paris, France, Coven Coffee</em>
</p><p>“So Macy—on the topic of love—” said Maggie.</p><p>“And, by extension, <em>kids</em>—” interjected Mel, “Harry is…” she thought aloud. “Ninety? Ninety-eight or so?”</p><p>“Your point being?” Macy raised an eyebrow in response to Mel’s question, unsure of exactly where this exchange was headed.</p><p>“Our point being,” Maggie paused. “Is everything<em>…</em>working ok <em>down there</em>?”</p><p>Macy sucked her breath into her teeth. She was about to throw a fit over being yanked out of bed in the wee hours, for a highly inappropriate cross-examination about geriatric sex (<em>and why hadn’t Harry blockaded her bedroom?</em>), but Maggie wore a “<em>please don’t shoot the messenger</em>” expression on her face that was impossible to ignore.</p><p>Macy, by turns, peered at Maggie and Mel. After a few seconds, Macy replied, “to my knowledge, <em>yes.</em>” She added, “even if it weren’t, I would still love him anyways. Also, in case you both forgot, he’s thirty-seven in physical appearance. Why are you both so curious about my intimate life, anyhow?”</p><p>“We’d like to know our sister and our dear older brother-from-another-mother Harry are in tip-top shape for baby-making, that’s all,” remarked Maggie offhandedly. “Having extra little humans in Vera Manor might be nice.”</p><p>“Whenever Harry and I decide to have kids is entirely <em>our </em>business, and nobody else’s,” Macy attempted to create well-meaning boundaries.</p><p>“Oh, so it’s a <em>when, </em>not an <em>if</em>,” Mel astutely noted.</p><p>Macy sighed. <em>This was going to be a very long day.</em></p><p>
  <em>7:30 am PDT, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Meanwhile in the basement of Vera Manor, completely dark save for a lone utility light, Harry was drawing pictures of a certain circular-shaped piece of jewelry commonly found on one’s left hand ring finger, and doing so in a notebook he had found in the attic. <em>Thank goodness Maggie and Mel took Macy to coffee in Paris this morning; that would give himself enough time to have a few blueprints ready for next week. </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>According to TimeOut Paris, poet and eccentric Gérard de Nerval is known to have owned a pet lobster in the 4th arrondissement, and as legend tells it, continues to haunt the Théâtre de la Ville today.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0037"><h2>37. JHMD: A Castle Conversation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>37 JHMD: A Castle Conversation</p><p>9 <em>am PDT/8 pm, 1 month later, Schwangau, Germany, Neuschwanstein Castle</em></p><p>Harry and Macy stood outside of the majestic Romanesque building, looming high above their heads, with its ornate stair towers and navy blue roof cornices. “What if you lived in this castle, back in the day?” Harry suddenly asked, turning to Macy, after they had just vanquished the extremely unpleasant ghost of a princess’ ex-lover. “It looks like the very picture of fairy tales, in the middle of the dense Bavarian forest.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t enjoy it,” Macy replied, much to Harry’s surprise.</p><p>“Why not?” Harry asked.</p><p>“Because people who look like me weren’t princesses back then,” she said simply. “I would’ve had far less choice of career that era, even compared to now.”</p><p>“Oh.” Harry was at a loss for words. “Does that mean science wasn’t your first choice in the way of professions?”</p><p>Macy laughed, as they strode slowly around the castle’s imperiously-high perimeter. “I tried everything—singing was <em>it </em>for awhile, and I eventually got steered toward science because, as my dad said back then, it was <em>“a recession-proof career.”</em> I was talented in the laboratory, and I made enough to pay the bills and have a sustainable way of living. But, there was that one time, between the karaoke bars and the laboratories, when I wanted to be a writer.”</p><p>“That explains your journal then?” Harry asked. Macy nodded.</p><p>“To me, writing is like breathing,” she said. “At one point, I briefly considered becoming a TV screenwriter for a show years ago. I read online about a screenwriter’s guild and various workshops; my professors had always given me A’s in school, and my grade school instructors always admired my ability to invent multiple co-existing plotlines.”</p><p>“What happened then?” asked Harry.</p><p>“I, ever-practical, did my research. An article had come out at the time, about substantial pay gaps between men and women screenwriters, and by different nationality. Once I read the article, I knew I didn’t have a prayer. My dad was sick at the time, and I had bills to pay; I didn’t have any generational wealth to lean on,” said Macy seriously. “What I appreciate about science, apart from the elegance of genomes, is that it’s more egalitarian. It’s not <em>who </em>you know or <em>how much </em>a screenwriting class costs, or how nobody, in the online portraiture of screenwriters, producers, and directors, looks <em>anything</em> like you. Being multiethnic, and people all confused how to categorize you—<em>to box you in</em>. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter—your race, your gender, how poor or rich you started. If you love science, it loves you right back.”</p><p>“Fascinating observations, Miss Macy, very fascinating,” murmured Harry. “In theory, the same could be said about the fields of accounting, engineering, law, and mathematics, could it not?” Macy concurred.</p><p>As the couple rounded a bend and made for the decorated white brick upper courtyard, Macy again spoke. “I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t mean for this to turn into a diatribe—” Macy began.</p><p>“It’s fine.” Harry held Macy’s hand and dutifully kissed it. “It’s about time I became a wiser man of this world, social justice issues included.”</p><p>
  <em>11 pm PDT, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>In the Vera Manor basement, Harry re-examined his <em>Proposal Locations </em>list and crossed off Neuschwanstein Castle—that was definitely a no-go, after his conversation with Macy earlier that day. He had always thought, prior to the present, that women liked castles and other such regal places. However, Harry knew that Macy was a unique woman, and he needed to do a bit more research on this front. Stowing his list away in a hidden corner of the utility shelf, he proceeded to type the phrase “engagement rings” into the search engine of Maggie’s phone, based on his blueprints.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0038"><h2>38. JHMD: Moissanite & Merriment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>38 JHMD: Moissanite &amp; Merriment</p><p>
  <em>6 am PDT, 6 weeks later, Vera Manor, Basement</em>
</p><p>Harry had not realized just how many engagement ring options were out there. He had narrowed down the jewelry websites to two, so progress had been done on that front. He had a general idea, blueprint-wise, how he wanted the ring to look, thinking he would take into account Jimmy’s ring design for Darcy eight decades or so earlier—a tri-stone design. He continued to scroll through the variety of stone options.</p><p>Harry learned that there were diamond simulants (cubic zirconia being especially inexpensive), moissanites (which were found in Arizona and supposedly derived from the sky, like magic), and diamonds themselves (extremely expensive, and brought with it a small-but-not-insignificant risk that it involved child labor, which both he and Macy were strongly opposed to). After all, children were meant to have a carefree life and learn and read and be happy—not toil away in the dark, dank diamond mines of a corrupt locale far, far away. Life was too short for that.</p><p>
  <em>9 am, Vera Manor, Kitchen</em>
</p><p>Everyone was sitting down to breakfast in the kitchen when Maggie came through, dropping a flyer in the center of the table.</p><p>“What’s this?” Macy picked up the flyer.</p><p>“SafeSpace Prom, in two weeks,” replied Maggie. “They want to thank everyone for being so cooperative with the construction workers months ago, and thought they’d try a new social activity.”</p><p>“<em>Prom</em>?” Mel asked, in a slightly skeptical tone. “Isn’t prom for…<em>high schoolers</em>?”</p><p>“Not this one,” Maggie answered. “<em>This </em>prom is going to have the best DJ, dance songs, <em>the works.</em> I would know of course, since”—she paused for suspense—“Jordan and I are on the planning committee.”</p><p>“Sounds fun,” Harry chimed in. All three of the girls’ heads turned and looked at him. “What?” he asked, looking at them. “I’ve never been to an American prom before. I’ve heard it’s fun.”</p><p>“Fun if you’re a cis-gender heterosexual male or female that adheres to heavily-pressured societal norms,” muttered Mel. “I didn’t go to mine.”</p><p>“<em>All </em>the more reason to show up to this one!” said Maggie, with an air of enthusiasm. “C’mon guys, it’ll be awesome because <em>I’m </em>the one planning it!” She surveyed Harry, Mel, and Macy. “Please say you’ll come?” she pleaded.</p><p>“Of course we will,” said Macy. “Won’t we?” she shot Harry and Mel a look. They nodded, though Mel still appeared somewhat apprehensive about the whole affair.</p><p>“<em>Awesome!</em>” squealed Maggie. “Anyway, TTYL, gotta do more prom planning. And dresses! I found some outfits in the attic we could repurpose.” And with that, she ran out the door, her mind aflutter with ideas.</p><p>
  <em>Noon, Vera Manor, Kitchen</em>
</p><p>Maggie was at SafeSpace; Harry was acting as Macy’s assistant in the she-shed, helping her mix and analyze Egyptian sphinx samples that dated back to 9500 BC. <em>The coast was clear. </em>Mel used a duplication charm against the prom invitation, creating an exact replica. She inspected it closely and wrote “<em>From Mel</em>” in her signature cursive handwriting. Taking a couple of deep breaths, she turned to what appeared to be a miniature tornado, or whirlpool, brewing in a miniature pewter cauldron. “<em>Abigael,” </em>she whispered, dropping the invitation into its stormy abyss.</p><p>
  <em>1 pm, Vera Manor, She-Shed</em>
</p><p>Harry continued to hold the sample container steady as Macy examined each test tube’s bottom to determine the level of RNA extraction, detectable through white strands separated from each substance, no larger than a single grain of rice. It was a laborious, time-consuming task. She saw the smallest hint of a gossamer thread emanating from one of the furthest glass tubes, but nothing else. Macy sighed. Her most recent client from Egypt was trying to ward off this mythical creature, that had taken to terrorizing local villagers in the nearby desert oasis. To successfully vanquish the rogue sphinx, Macy needed to send the client an accurate genetic sampling for the proper potion brew to be made on the other end. <em>Perhaps another couple of hours.</em></p><p>In the meantime, Macy signaled for Harry to place the sample container back on the solid wood desk, which he did. She removed her gloves, eye mask, and lab coat, and Harry followed suit, which meant to Harry that this experiment would take longer than expected—enough time to talk to Macy. He had forgotten that she was wearing her spaghetti-strap tank top and short fuchsia floral-patterned silk shorts. <em>She had to have done that on purpose, </em>he thought to himself.</p><p>“Macy,” Harry began, as they sat on the carpeted interior (<em>Macy replaced the carpet with a new one after the explosion sometime earlier</em>). “Do you like dances?”</p><p>Macy looked at him oddly. “I like dancing with you, if that’s what you’re asking.” <em>Harry could have sworn he detected a subtle smirk somewhere in her visage.</em></p><p>“I mean—” Harry looked at the fluffy white faux fur rug that laid underneath them both, for the next few seconds, as he composed his thoughts together. <em>Nobody ever told me asking someone to a public dance would be this nerve-wracking and awkward, </em>he thought to himself, as his palms began to sweat. <em>Americans seemed to have so much more self-confidence than the British compatriots he himself had known back in his WWII days. Was this why? </em>“Do you want to go to a dance with me—I mean,” he looked at Macy. “Prom? Do you want to go to the prom, with me?”</p><p>Macy giggled, reaching out to stroke Harry’s sideburns. “I feel like we’re back in high school—except a more fun version where we make the rules and have more money and do cool things,” as she deflected Harry’s question entirely.</p><p><em>She was doing this on purpose. </em>“That doesn’t answer the question, Macy Vaughn,” Harry drew nearer to Macy, slowly caressing her cheek as she closed her eyes involuntarily. “Will you or will you not go to SafeSpace prom with me, two weeks from today?” He reached his hand over to under her floral shorts, <em>she was already wet, </em>and she gasped aloud, while he stroked her slowly at first, then faster and faster, until he felt her pulsating waves and her moisture glistening on his finger as he removed it.</p><p>“<em>YES—” </em>Macy gulped. “<em>Damn you, </em>Harry Greenwood. <em>Yes.</em>”</p><p>“Yes…<em>what</em>?” asked Harry cheekily.</p><p>“Yes, I’ll go to the prom with you.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0039"><h2>39. JHMD: Amor Vincit Omnia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>39 JHMD: Amor Vincit Omnia</p><p>
  <em>7 am PDT, 7 weeks later, Vera Manor</em>
</p><p>Macy found herself rummaging through the selection of dresses Maggie pulled out from the attic boxes. Apparently, Marisol had been a social butterfly way back in the day—<em>who knew?</em>—and had a wide variety of colorful outfits for their repurposing. Maggie had already found her dress, a satin-like maroon-colored outfit, that she was currently glue-gunning Swarovski crystals to at the wee hours of the night; Mel had her eye on an ivory-colored suit jacket, with matching pants, that reminded her of Annie Hall (<em>plus or minus a fedora</em>) and fit like a glove.</p><p>Macy fished out a black dress (<em>too somber</em>), a dark blue (<em>too “wallflower”</em>). She realized that she was looking for a dress that was an elegant showstopper but not obnoxiously so; a sophisticated dress that the right audience would appreciate. Rifling through the stacks of outfits, she discovered a dress at the very bottom that was wrapped in a silk garment bag.</p><p>Curious, Macy opened it, and out spilled forth an “A-Line Off-the-Shoulder Asymmetrical Tulle Evening Dress With Beading Sequins Bow(s),” according to the label attached. Apparently, Marisol had never worn this dress, and the tags were still attached. Turning one of the labels over, she gasped. There, in Marisol’s handwriting were the words:<em> “to my darling Marcella Yesenia, for prom.” </em>Macy turned to a nearby mirror, tears forming in her eyes, as she shed her clothes and tried the dress on.</p><p>It fit perfectly.</p><p>
  <em>8:45 pm, 8 weeks later, SafeSpace Prom</em>
</p><p>SafeSpace prom was off to a promising start; tickets had sold out and everyone was dressed to the nines. The DJ was playing a selection of carefully curated, pre-vetted songs that had been deemed appropriate for the audience. Maggie was onstage in her gorgeous maroon sleeveless gown, cropped just above the knee, with sparkling Swarovski crystals adorning the blouse. Jordan, emceeing the event, could not seem to take his eyes off of her.</p><p>Mel was in a corner of the bar, looking just as stylish in her white suit jacket number, but she seemed distracted, monitoring her phone and writing off a frenzy of texts.</p><p>Harry, at the opposite end of the bar, kept checking his watch, wondering where Macy was. <em>She wouldn’t skip out on this, would she? </em>He had planned things very meticulously, to the hour, and quite possibly to the minute.</p><p>
  <em>9 pm, SafeSpace Prom</em>
</p><p>“Hi Harry.” Harry felt a light tap on his shoulder and turned around. It was Macy.</p><p>She was dressed in a tulle asymmetrical evening gown with intricate beading and looked absolutely <em>breathtaking</em>. <em>Hot damn. </em>Her hair was styled in a bun on her head, and she simply took his breath away. Shifting her weight on each foot, Macy regarded him shyly, fiddling with her purse pouch. “Do I look ok?” she asked hesitatingly.</p><p>Harry kissed her, and whispered in her ear, “You look simply <em>magnificent</em>.” Macy beamed. “Dance?” he offered her his hand, and she took it, sweeping ever-so-elegantly onto the concrete floor, now covered by a hazelnut-hued temporary wooden dance surface.</p><p>
  <em>10 pm, SafeSpace Prom</em>
</p><p>The evening was in full swing, and drinks were flowing aplenty. Maggie and Jordan, now relieved of their committee duties, proceeded to a dark corner of the bar to grab refreshments and catch up; <em>they looked to be getting quite friendly with each other</em>, Macy noticed. Macy thought Jordan was a good fit for Maggie’s impetuous personality, with his loyal, solidly dependable personality and excellent work ethic. Mel had disappeared entirely some time ago, but nobody noticed due to the booming music, the crowds of people, and the sheer noise level (<em>Swan dancing on a nearby table might have had something to do with it too)</em>.</p><p>Macy looked as if she’d had enough, and so had Harry, as he had additional plans for the evening. “How about post prom in the Azores?” he whispered to her when nobody was looking. Macy acquiesced, and they walked out of the rowdy hall into an upstairs darkened conference room where they orbed out into the tropics.</p><p>
  <em>10 pm PDT/5 am, Madalena, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Azores Islands</em>
</p><p>Macy and Harry landed in the entryway; the entire space was dark save for a bevy of tealights overhead. She silently counted them—there seemed to be over fifty—or sixty. <em>Maybe even as many as a hundred? Wow, Harry sure decorated well for this post prom, </em>Macy thought to herself. Just then, Harry reached over to a corner table for two wine glasses and a bottle of Muscadet. Pouring into both glasses, he offered Macy one, and she took it, sniffing the unique aroma. Macy took a tiny sip; she could taste the crisp and refreshing melon and grape notes, and a curious hint of plum, if she was not mistaken.</p><p>After doing so, Macy slowly examined the bottle, which read “2013 Château du Jaunay Muscadet Sèvre et Maine.” She was genuinely intrigued at the lengths Harry went to procure décor and a vintage wine of this sort, all things considered. Muscadet was one of those “special occasion” offbeat, distinctive types of wines she had been meaning to try for awhile but never had the chance—<em>until now</em>. She slowly placed the bottle and the wineglass back on the small table, next to Harry’s.</p><p>“Is there a reason you’re serving seven-year-old Muscadet under fancy tealights in a condo in the Azores?” Macy turned to him, then gasped.</p><p>Harry was kneeling before her holding a tiny box that revealed a three-stone emerald cut Moissanite platinum ring. “Marcella Yesenia Vaughn, otherwise known as Macy, we have a legendary love that has lasted decades and surmounted death itself. You inspire me with your saucy wit, and you drive me wild with your beauty and charm. Will you do the honor of becoming my wife?”</p><p>Macy could feel tears prickling her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered, then louder. “Yes. <em>Yes!” </em>she exclaimed excitedly as he stood up, kissed her, and placed the sparkling ring on her left ring finger. “Harry, it’s gorgeous, it truly is,” she breathed.</p><p>“The ring is platinum, three-stone moissanite,” Harry said, “meaning that there were no labor laws violated vis-à-vis diamond mines and such.” Macy understood what he meant, and eco-friendliness was something she valued in jewelry besides. “The smaller side stones signify the past and the future, and the larger center stone represents the present. <em>Our </em>present,” Harry added. “Of course, one could also argue they symbolize the Power of Three, as you are one of the three Charmed Ones, and your relationship with your two sisters is extraordinarily close.” Macy silently agreed, simultaneously laughing and crying, her tears spilling over onto her warm cheekbones. Turning the ring around, she noticed an inscription on its inside: “<em>Amor Vincit Omnia.” </em></p><p>“Love conquers all,” Macy murmured.</p><p>“Yes, my darling. Love conquers all.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0040"><h2>40. JHMD: The Banging</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>40: JHMD: The Banging</p><p>
  <em>10:15 pm PDT/5:15 am, 8 weeks later, Post Prom, Madalena, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Azores Islands</em>
</p><p>As Harry and Macy stood on the balcony overlooking the horizon, watching the stars and a slew of what appeared to be comets, they sipped what remained in their respective wineglasses. “So Harry,” Macy casually remarked. “What should I call myself now?”</p><p>Harry pondered this for a few moments. <em>Was there a right answer? </em>He replied, “Whatever you feel like—Dr. Macy Vaughn, Dr. Macy Greenwood, Vaughn-Greenwood, or a hybrid?”</p><p>“Definitely food for thought in the coming weeks, Mr. Greenwood,” Macy responded, chuckling a bit.</p><p>After they had washed the wineglasses and shut the balcony screened door, the two proceeded to the master bedroom. A sudden thought struck Macy. “Harry,” she said, “why <em>did </em>Maggie think our condo was a sex dungeon?”</p><p>Even in the darkness, Macy could sense Harry blushing. “Truth be told, <em>pun intended</em>, your sisters sat me down for a…let’s just say…<em>a sisterly chat</em>. They asked me what my intentions were with you, and due to Mel having laced my tea with truth serum, I happened to remark that the first use of Epicenter Pico No. 23 was as our home, and our secondary use was as your sex dungeon.”</p><p><em>I am going to kill them, </em>Macy thought to herself. “I can’t believe them! Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Harry?”</p><p>“You were dealing with launching your genetics business, and I didn’t want to add any additional stress. They do have your best interests in mind, and they really want what’s best for you. I think I convinced them, otherwise they never would have let us orb here in peace. Besides—” Harry stepped closer to Macy in the bedroom, reaching out to pull the curtains shut, “they were right.” A tiny glimmer of moonlight peeked out, nevertheless, which was just enough for nocturnal visibility.</p><p>“Right about…” Macy could feel her toes curling, just the tiniest amount.</p><p>“The sex dungeon bit.”</p><p>“Oh.” Macy suppressed a smile. As if to change the subject, she turned around. “Can you unzip me from my tulle gown?”</p><p>“With pleasure,” Harry murmured, slowly doing so, as he kissed Macy’s neck; she shivered involuntarily at his touch. While he unzipped her, she removed the ponytail holder that was keeping her hair in place, and her curls were let out.</p><p>“<em>Much better, Ms. Vaughn,” </em>whispered Harry, breathing in the scent of her flowing locks. Macy closed her eyes, but knew she wasn’t quite done yet. Turning to face Harry, she held a piece of what looked to be fabric.</p><p>“What is <em>that, </em>Ms. Vaughn, and what are you going to do to me?” Harry raised an eyebrow suggestively.</p><p>“Exactly what it looks like, <em>Mr. Greenwood</em>.” Macy proceeded to unbutton Harry’s shirt, then fastened the blindfold over his eyes. She then kissed her way down his chest, feeling the natural thrum of his steady heartbeat, moving downward to his belt buckle, which she unclasped, unzipping his pants and placing his now-erect shaft into her soft, inviting mouth. <em>He gasped aloud as she continued to give him sparks of undeniable pleasure. </em>He thrust once, then twice, grasping for her curly locks, but she slapped him away, and continued her sensuality for some seconds more.</p><p>“<em>Why </em>do you punish me?” Harry groaned. Macy removed herself of him, stood up, and pushed him onto the king bed that was mere inches away.</p><p>“Because you were naughty,” Macy whispered, now straddling him, having flung the fabric throw pillows across the room using her telekinesis.</p><p>“<em>Was I</em>?” Harry murmured. “I had no idea,” he said, as he reached for her arms and kissed them, before she slapped his arms away once more. “What on earth have I done, <em>Ms. Vaughn</em>?”</p><p>“Used the incorrect proper noun, Mr. Greenwood, I daresay,” she saucily replied, bending forward to kiss his forehead, while hearing his sharp intake of breath.</p><p>“Oh, I <em>see, </em>Dr. Vaughn…and <em>just what are you going to do about that?” </em>Harry paused for a second, then whipped his blindfold off and pinned Macy to the bed, as she bit her lip suggestively. They looked at each other for what seemed like eternity, absorbing the other’s visage, eyes, eyelashes, the curve of the other’s nails, but was, to the outside world, only mere milliseconds, before Macy guided him into her and they began their passionate exploration of one another, punctuated by Harry’s wild thrusts and Macy’s vocalizations. His youthful skin intertwined with her dewy flesh, his mop of hair grew tangled in her wild curls, and Macy clawed his back in ecstasy as he dove deeper, and <em>deeper still</em> into her innermost core, as if to touch the physicality of her very soul’s being.</p><p>He could hear echoes of Melanija Paradis’ song, “Burn Into My Veins,” a hauntingly sultry tune, coming from Macy’s phone, a likely subconscious effect of her telekinesis…</p><p>
  <em>Burn into my veins</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Scratch beneath my skin,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Swallow me up whole </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Rescue from the hell I’m in…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Pull me from my prison</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Throw away the key,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Break me out for life,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bring me to my knees.</em>
</p><p>Resurfacing from scorching reverie to make the barest of eye contact, he could feel himself release into her a piece of his own soul’s essence, as they merged together in the symphonic pulsations of his and her heartbeats.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Note: "Burn Into My Veins" are my original Melanija Paradis lyrics. Lyrics in full:<br/>I know<br/>I know it's you--<br/>I didn't turn around,<br/>All of this, it's new<br/>In midnight's sordid dance,<br/>This chemical romance.</p><p>Burn into my veins<br/>Scratch beneath my skin,<br/>Swallow me up whole<br/>Rescue from the hell I’m in…</p><p>Tear off the blindfold,<br/>Show me what's within.<br/>Rip off those bandages,<br/>And let me in.</p><p>Pull me from my prison<br/>Throw away the key,<br/>Break me out for life,<br/>Bring me to my knees.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0041"><h2>41. JHMD: Bacchanalia Mysterium</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>41: JHMD: Bacchanalia Mysterium</p><p>
  <em>11 pm PDT/6 am, 8 weeks later, Post Prom, Madalena, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Azores Islands</em>
</p><p>Resurfacing from scorching reverie to make the barest of eye contact, he could feel himself release into her a piece of his own soul’s essence, as they merged together in the symphonic pulsations of his and her heartbeats.</p><p>
  <em>8 am PDT/3 pm, Day after Post Prom, Vera Manor, Maggie’s Bedroom</em>
</p><p>A disheveled Maggie blinked her eyes slowly, shielding her eyes from the light streaming through her bedroom window. Her memories of last night were cloudy, and her head pounded from one too many drinks among the wild activities that constituted yesterday’s veritable bacchanalia. She wasn’t flat-out drunk—<em>Margarita Vera was too classy for that </em>–she had merely been tipsy, plus extraordinarily sleep-deprived from the committee planning activities. If Maggie remembered correctly, Macy and Harry were at their tropical condo in the Azores, and if all went according to plan, they would be arriving tonight, engaged to be married, as the future Greenwoods.</p><p>Some of Maggie’s memories flickered back. She had felt such amazing, ankle-popping chemistry with Jordan, her smart and generally awesome coworker. His suit shirt coordinated perfectly, and she thought it was certainly a pity they worked so closely together, otherwise she would have been on him in a heartbeat—<em>oh, wait a second…</em></p><p>Around 10 last night, she remembered that they had a couple of drinks, and somehow, they had spilled the beans about having feelings for each other. If she recalled, it began with Jordan mentioning offhandedly that he had broken up with his girlfriend awhile ago, then she remembered telling him that he was too good for said ex, anyways. They had kissed, and what had meant to be a single kiss turned into many, <em>many </em>more, along the railings of the fire escape stairwell. <em>This was going to make facing him tonight at Macy and Harry’s surprise engagement party extremely awkward, to say the least. </em>Maggie groaned aloud. And she had a fancy dinner to plan.</p><p>
  <em>8 am PDT/3 pm, Day after Post Prom, New York Luxury Apartment, Bedroom</em>
</p><p>Mel awoke to a mysterious amount of elegant floor-to-ceiling windows. The down comforter was an understated black, in contrast with the crisp white multitudinous-threaded sheets. Her Annie Hall-style ivory suit was folded in a corner chair, and she was completely alone—<em>or was she? </em>Mel had recalled leaving the SafeSpace bar to go dance elsewhere, and there might or might not have been a contract involved with a nefarious force, that she had to visit said entity every Sunday for sixty weeks, in the style of Scheherazade. <em>Or was that just a dream? Please, let me be dreaming. </em>But Mel knew that strange happenings were afoot.</p><p>Having been lured out of the enigmatic bedchamber by the aroma of crisp, sizzling turkey bacon, she slowly dressed in the adjoining bathroom, wearing her ivory slacks and camisole from yesterday, and made her way into the modern, airy kitchen, where she detected a cryptic tune.</p><p>“<em>Mysterium</em>, Alexander Scriabin’s unfinished work,” a silky British female voice called from near the stove.</p><p>
  <em>Oh shit. It was Abigael.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>9 pm PDT, Same Day, Vera Manor, Backyard Garden</em>
</p><p>By all accounts, Maggie’s engagement party for Harry and Macy had been a resounding success. Harry, Macy, Mel, Maggie, and Jordan all gathered under the shining tealights and ivy beneath Vera Manor’s silhouette for a champagne toast “<em>To our future brother-in-law Harry!”</em> along with tortilla chips, fresh homemade guacamole, Guisada al Pollo (chicken and potato stew), vegan black bean empanadas, and coconut coquitos at the end.</p><p>Maggie was alone in the kitchen cleaning up after the party; she refused to let Macy or Harry help clean up, finally threatening to hex them if they didn’t go and enjoy themselves out on the patio. Mel had shown up right as dinner was being served, without <em>any </em>explanation at all whatsoever as to her earlier whereabouts, muttering something about “<em>highly regrettable decisions.” </em>After dinner, it seemed as though Mel had vanished into thin air. Maggie sighed as she faced two tall towers of dirty dishes clamoring for attention in the sink. <em>So much for sisterly love.</em></p><p>“Want some help with that?” Maggie didn’t need to turn around to know who spoke. <em>Jordan.</em> Without so much as a second of eye contact, she tossed him a sponge and he began to scrub the stack of dishes to her right. Several long, interminable minutes passed before he ventured a word in. “Do you want to discuss what happened last night?”</p><p>Maggie knew this was going to happen sooner or later. “What’s there to discuss?” she tried to ask casually, knowing full well that she could feel her face starting to blush.</p><p>“The part where we talked about…<em>us</em>.” Jordan said softly. “Maggie, for once in your life, it’s ok to relax—you’re not at work right now. It’s ok to open your heart—to, <em>y’know</em>, see where things go.”</p><p>“With you?” Maggie turned to face him slowly.</p><p>“Only if you want to…” Jordan replied, looking through the window to where Harry and Macy stood outside stargazing. “I don’t plan to run from my feelings; I like to face my fears directly.”</p><p>Maggie laughed. “You, Jordan, are afraid?”</p><p>“More than you know,” Jordan responded. “But, like all things, I realize that if I don’t confront this head-on, I will always wonder what might have been—and <em>that </em>is more impossible to live with, in my humble opinion.”</p><p>“But,” Maggie tried to find a cover of an excuse to deny her innermost feelings. “What if things end terribly?”</p><p>“What if,” Jordan offered a rejoinder, bending closer to meet her eyes, “we’re the next Hacy?”</p><p>“Touché, Chase, touché,” Maggie knew she was fighting a losing battle. “If you’re so dead set on your noble quest, ask me on a date. <em>I dare you</em>.”</p><p>“Ok, Vera,” Jordan chuckled. “Maybe I will.” And they kissed.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0042"><h2>42. JHMD: Graceful Gowns & Runic Records</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>42: JHMD: Graceful Gowns &amp; Runic Records</p><p>
  <em>9 am, 2 months before the wedding, Vera Manor, Kitchen</em>
</p><p>It was five weeks after SafeSpace prom, Harry’s proposal, and the surprise engagement party; the wedding was to be in two months, and Macy’s stomach was churning with anxiety, knowing she had her work cut out for her. Though Maggie pointed her in the direction of all the classic, modern wedding websites, nothing seemed to fit her image of what she herself ought to look like as a bride.</p><p>Some dresses had large, puffy sleeves that screamed the 1840s in style. Other dresses left too little to the imagination, with the undergarments fully visible to anyone who walked past. Macy bookmarked a handful of dresses that she found vaguely intriguing—one was an A-line long, sleeveless ivory-colored gown that reminded her of fairy tale princesses; the other dress looked to be of the 1920s, with its embellished shoulder faux-pearl beading.</p><p>Harry walked into the kitchen, kissing Macy as he made a beeline to his canisters of tea and accompanying teacups. He took a double-take of what was on her plate—a slice of toast thinly spread with a layer of crunchy peanut butter—instead of her usual scrambled tofu with veggies. <em>Perhaps it was all of those pre-wedding preparation jitters</em>, he thought to himself, as he boiled water in his signature teakettle and prepared his brew. “Something’s different about you,” he remarked, observing her curly hair, and exhausted face. “New perfume?”</p><p>Macy shook her head. “Just wedding preparation exhaustion. I’ve been looking at all of these wedding websites trying to find a dress, and none of them, except for two—” she showed Harry the photos—“really speak to me at all.”</p><p>“You could wear a potato sack and I would still find you the most gorgeous woman on earth,” he said in response. Macy laughed, as he continued, stating, “I know you’ll look beautiful in whatever gown you choose, Macy.”</p><p>“I certainly hope so too, Harry. I hope so too.”</p><p>
  <em>Noon, SafeSpace Command Center</em>
</p><p>Macy entered the Command Center, having been instructed to come here by none other than Harry himself. She had no idea what to expect; if he planned for them to go to the Azores, he would have orbed there directly with her, she was certain of that. As it was, she couldn’t help but feel a creeping sense of annoyance that she’d been unnecessarily pulled away from her saber-toothed tiger genomic splices, and her wedding dress research.</p><p>
  <em>12:10 pm, SafeSpace Command Center</em>
</p><p>Just then, Harry orbed to her left, and led her to what she recognized as the Book of Charmed Ones. She rolled her eyes and gave him a look. <em>Was this all? </em>But he shook his head, muttering a few key phrases, causing the pages to turn backward to the 1920s. He beckoned for Macy to come closer, so she did, and gave a start. There, on the topmost page, were her three great-great aunts Darcy, Della, and Dora Valensi—the Charmed Ones of the Azores region, 1920-1940(*). She followed the footnoted asterisk to the bottom of the page, which stated in tiny lettering that the Charmed Ones’ unified power broke as a direct result of Darcy Madalena Valensi’s going into hiding in Manchester, England. This, Macy knew, was when Darcy had fled the Azores with baby Matias due to having received the soothsayer’s prophecy of death by falling object. <em>How much had Darcy sacrificed of herself—and her sisters—in the process? </em>Pressing onward, reading through the paper-thin parchment’s stately calligraphic script, Macy felt chills run down her spine. <em>How many times had Macy read her and her sisters’ names in this book, but never thought to look for their ancestors?</em></p><p>Macy examined the entry in careful detail; it was almost like seeing a forefather’s name written into the Ellis Island passenger records—except different, in that instead of sorting through 65 million individuals, there were only three women listed every so often, in various eras dating back from the dawn of civilization. She mentally scolded herself; somehow, skimming through a few time periods (1620s, 1770s, 1840s) had led her to mistakenly believe that it was only women of a certain background (e.g., austere, porcelain-complexioned Salem Witches hailing from England) that were listed in the Book of Charmed Ones. Olive-skinned islanders weren’t part of this type of documented narrative—<em>or were they?</em></p><p>In her prior magical recordation studies, Macy recalled a certain steady repetition of names, such as “Prudence,” “Hester,” and “Charity.” Of course, there was nothing particularly <em>bad </em>about that, but it was refreshingly wonderful to see that her three great-great aunts had made their mark in history, instead of facing the common conundrum many island nations experienced at the time, being written out of history books that were widely distributed to educational institutions for mass consumption—erased into oblivion. But the three names were there, specifically of the stated era in question. <em>Della, Dora, and Darcy were once living, breathing Charmed Ones—just like me and my sisters!</em></p><p>She then turned to Harry, her voice full of emotion. “Thank you for showing me my ancestors—this means <em>so </em>much to me, Harry<em>.</em>”</p><p>“I know,” he responded with equal seriousness. “I found this while searching through various records and I thought that you of all people should be made aware, since you are a descendant. I also figured this would take your mind off, however temporarily, of those wedding woes of yours.” He stepped back to allow her a moment alone with the entry and saw her not-so-subtly snap a photo with her phone for posterity’s sake. Macy had thought up until recently that she was an only child, discovering just these past years that she had two younger sisters; now, she had even more—a history uniquely her own.</p><p>Once she was done, she closed the book, and took ahold of Harry’s arm to orb back to Vera Manor.</p><p>
  <em>1 pm, Vera Manor, Living Room</em>
</p><p>Harry and Macy orbed back into the living room of Vera Manor. Oddly, Harry felt a tug at his arm, and found Macy had fallen backward and was now sprawled out on the couch behind him. “Are you alright?” he asked, his face full of concern.</p><p>“I—I’m ok. I think the wedding’s been taking a toll on me.” Macy muttered, massaging her head. It seemed strange that after so much orbing for the past couple of years, she would feel just this dizzy and disoriented. She was almost embarrassed at herself for showing this amount and level of physical weakness. She was a Charmed One, after all. <em>Wedding stress, </em>she told herself. <em>Three more months and you’ll never be this stressed out again.</em></p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0043"><h2>43. JHMD: Of Ginger & Spice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>43: JHMD: Of Ginger &amp; Spice</p><p>
  <em>9 am, 1 month and 3 weeks before the wedding, Vera Manor, Kitchen</em>
</p><p>It was seven weeks after Harry proposed, and exactly one month and three weeks before the impending wedding. Macy had finally found and ordered her dress online, an A-line vintage empire waist beaded lace and chiffon wedding gown with a lace keyhole back bodice and a falling chiffon skirt that gave off strong Jane Austen “Pride and Prejudice” vibes that she was sure Harry would himself appreciate.</p><p>At the same time, there was so much left to do. Unable to fathom a cup of coffee due to stress, Macy couldn’t wait until the whole affair was over, and she could finally settle in with her genetics business as she had originally intended. <em>Stupid gastritis, </em>she told herself.</p><p>
  <em>9:30 am, Grocery store, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>It had been ages since Harry Greenwood last walked into a grocery store. Things certainly looked different. He could see bath salts, shoes, and scarves in a shelf several meters away next to pet food, and the whole layout seemed as confusing as ever.</p><p>He reexamined his list. <em>Sanitary napkins </em>(Maggie) and <em>ginger chews </em>(Macy). Typically, Maggie would have ordered sanitary napkins online, but apparently there was a unionized protest and the only pads available were in this particular store, on this particular street, at this particular time of the day. He strode through a few aisles to the organic feminine products section and plucked what he believed matched Maggie’s listing.</p><p>Harry’s next order of business was to look for ginger chews in the candied fruits section, for Macy’s stress-induced stomach pain (“<em>gastritis</em>,” she called it). If he remembered correctly, ginger symbolized prosperity and passion; it also served as a cure-all for mild gastrointestinal ailments. He spent several minutes perusing the variety of dried fruits and nuts. Apparently, one could find chopped crystallized ginger, chopped plain uncrystallized ginger, chocolate-covered ginger, ginger lozenges, or finely minced crystallized ginger. He scratched his head, wondering what Macy would choose. <em>He decided to grab one of each.</em></p><p>Another man bumped into his shopping basket, toppling his items onto the floor. The man apologized, his basket containing the same ginger products that Harry had in his very own. “You too?” the guy asked, looking down at Harry’s wares.</p><p>“W-What do you mean?” asked Harry quizzically.</p><p>“Ginger chews. I buy ‘em by the boxful. Pregnant wife. Poor thing,” the man responded.</p><p>“Oh—it’s for my fiancée—and her stress stomachache.”</p><p>“Sure,” the guy winked. “And congrats on the future nuptials.”</p><p>A most peculiar thought entered Harry’s mind at that particular moment, and he decided to make one final purchase.</p><p>
  <em>10 am, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Harry discreetly left Maggie’s sanitary napkins outside of her bedroom door and deposited the remaining items in Macy’s bedroom. He thought it be best to have a quick chat with Macy before she came in and saw the mix of ginger-containing products from the grocery store, plus another box that would <em>definitely </em>elicit questions, and went downstairs, out the patio doors, and up toward Macy’s she-shed.</p><p>
  <em>10:15 am, Vera Manor, She-Shed Entrance</em>
</p><p>A note was affixed to the she-shed door. “<em>Busy fighting the Sirenum Scopuli” </em>it read.</p><p><em>Damn it, </em>Harry silently cursed to himself. Macy was in no position to fight a vicious water-loving siren given her seemingly weakened condition earlier this morning. He had to find her before it was too late. Mel and Maggie were nowhere to be found, and in all likelihood, were battling alongside Macy, wherever they were.</p><p>He orbed up to the attic, pulling out a nearby map and scrying crystal for his closer examination. After a few tense seconds, the crystal honed in on a nearby location—Pike Place Market, Seattle Washington. Once he gathered himself together, he smoothed his shirt, straightened his collar, and orbed there directly. <em>If anything happened to Macy it was all his fault.</em></p><p>
  <em>10:30 am, Pike Place Market, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Harry recalled reading a placard near Pike Place years ago, next to the first-ever location of a certain well-known coffee shop: “The sirens were dangerous creatures, luring sailors with their musical voices and causing them to shipwreck on the rocky coast.” It commonly took the appearance of a large scaly bird with a woman’s head.</p><p>Walking quickly around the indoor fish market, he noticed that the male fishmongers were fast asleep over their bulldozers, slumped alongside ice chests, sprawled sideways on benches. <em>The siren had to have been here</em>. He ran faster, trying to picture in his mind any number of possible paths the siren could have taken. Harry turned a corner, passed the produce section, and made his way approximately one block west, following the distant voices up ahead.</p><p>
  <em>10:35 am, Pike Place Market, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>Harry came face-to-face with the terrifying scene of the Charmed Ones as they desperately fought off the fearsome, towering siren; its wings were prevented from causing gales of wind that would have decimated buildings, only by Macy’s impenetrable charms emanating in waves of electric blue from her trembling hands.</p><p>Maggie and Mel, meanwhile, held a piece of paper to their face, to show the siren that its calls were being actively ignored, much to its indignant fury. Together, they chanted their vanquishing spell:</p><p>
  <em>Siren, with your feminine face,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Go, depart forever, from this marketplace.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Attention we stubbornly ignore,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You shall breathe—nevermore!</em>
</p><p>A shower of sparks ensued, and the siren was no more. The electric waves of energy stopped emanating from Macy’s hands, and she collapsed, unconscious, into Harry’s outstretched arms.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0044"><h2>44. JHMD: A Diamond Glow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>44: JHMD: A Diamond Glow</p><p>
  <em>10:35 am, 1 month and 3 weeks before the wedding, Pike Place Market, Seattle, Washington</em>
</p><p>A shower of sparks ensued, and the siren was no more. The electric waves of energy stopped emanating from Macy’s hands, and she collapsed, unconscious, into Harry’s arms.</p><p>
  <em>11 am, Vera Manor, Living Room</em>
</p><p>It was seven weeks after Harry proposed, and Macy was unconscious on the living room carpet. <em>This was not how Harry envisioned starting out married (or pre-married) life with Macy, that much he was certain. </em>Mel and Maggie stood over her, worry clearly etched into their faces. “Can you heal her, Harry?” Mel asked anxiously.</p><p>“I will certainly try,” answered Harry, crouching over Macy’s body. He did his customary hand-healing technique, emanating his warm glow over her vital organs, checking each in turn. Her brain reported no injury. Her heart, which he was also concerned about, appeared to beating healthily, altogether unscathed. Her legs, arms, and hands seemed functional. No scratch marks or poisonous bites were visible in any part of her body, <em>thank goodness</em>, he thought to himself, recalling an earlier incident in which a dark green-veined venom had coursed through Macy’s leg so very long ago.</p><p>Macy’s spleen, stomach, kidneys, and overall musculature were in working order as well. Harry was more than certain of that, for he checked, double-checked, and triple-checked everything. <em>What was it then, that caused Macy to faint? Certainly nothing related to the siren incident earlier</em>. He tested her circulation; all was normal. Mel and Maggie continued to observe his movements, as several long minutes ticked by.</p><p>At last, Harry stood up. Macy was still unconscious on the floor, as he continued to survey her body from above. Mel and Maggie looked at him, puzzled that he wasn’t doing more to heal their sister. “Is she—<em>is she</em>—” Maggie squeaked, unable to speak the worst-case scenario that was looming at the back of her mind.</p><p>“No,” Harry replied. “Macy is very much alive and seems to have simply fainted from not having much breakfast this morning; wedding stress has caught up with her a bit. There is nothing physiologically wrong with her.” Maggie and Mel’s faces showed visible signs of relief upon hearing Harry’s words. <em>But why won’t Macy wake up</em>, they wondered, glancing at each other nervously. <em>Was there something Harry wasn’t telling them?</em></p><p>Just then, a tiny, round, diamond-colored light emanated from below Macy’s stomach, which flickered for the briefest of seconds, and abruptly disappeared. Mel and Maggie stared. “Harry, what <em>is</em> that light?” Harry did not speak, because he had never come across such a phenomenon in his lifetimes, Jimmy Westwell or Harry Greenwood included. If Harry were truly honest with himself, it reminded him of his own whitelighting brightness that came from his very hands. <em>But that’s not possible</em>, he argued with himself. <em>Macy’s a witch—a Charmed One. There are no whitelighters or anyone with a modicum of whitelighting ability in her Valensi family tree, nor in her mother Marisol’s family either, as talented and skilled as they all are.</em></p><p><em>Perhaps Macy took in the Source, but that was so far in the past that there was no residual matter of the sort in her body. </em>Furthermore, he could sense that the light was extremely young in age, and inherently of good, not evil origin. Whatever this light was, it certainly meant no harm to Macy, nor to any other occupant of the Vera Manor living room. <em>Her body can’t possibly be exhibiting whitelighter signs of healing itself, </em>he thought. Harry had never heard of such a phenomenon—if that were the case, what use would witches have of whitelighters, and what purpose would he serve to the Charmed Ones, in that highly, <em>highly </em>unlikely scenario? <em>That couldn’t be it, </em>Harry thought. <em>Such a scenario was far too improbable…</em></p><p>Harry turned to face Mel and Maggie. “I’m not entirely sure, but I have my suspicions. But first and foremost, Macy needs to rest. I’ll run another test once she wakes up,” he said, without mentioning the specific test he had in mind. Mel and Maggie silently agreed with his assessment of the situation, and after asking, “Are you sure you two will be ok?” and Harry reassuring them, the two left for SafeSpace—Mel for Spellbound, and Maggie to her early afternoon work shift.</p><p>With that, Harry picked Macy up gently, slung her over his shoulder, and orbed themselves to her bedroom.</p><p>
  <em>11:30 am, Vera Manor, Macy’s Bedroom</em>
</p><p>Harry continued to have an internal debate with himself over the cause of the mysterious diamond-colored light, when a new thought suddenly struck him. <em>What if the light wasn’t coming from her, but instead coming from…? </em>He again observed Macy’s sleeping form, and it finally hit him. <em>Macy’s pregnant.</em></p><p>Everything was suddenly starting to make sense.</p><p>
  <em>1 pm, Vera Manor, Macy’s Bedroom</em>
</p><p>Macy blinked once, then a couple more times, struggling to orient herself. From what she last recalled, she had been at Pike Market with her sisters, busy sending blue waves of emanating Charmed force to combat against the rogue siren, with its tall, burgeoning wings and strange humanoid female head. <em>Where was she now? </em>Her hands clutched cotton threaded bedsheets, and she could see her familiar-scented down comforter blanket and fluffy pillows. She uttered a sigh of relief, then realized something didn’t seem quite right. Somehow, she had been brought home. <em>But how? And what on earth happened?</em></p><p>Harry cleared his throat, as if to get her attention from where he sat, perched on a chair to one side of her queen-sized bed. “How are you feeling, Macy?” He offered her a glass of carbonated ginger-flavored water, which she slowly sipped. <em>Not bad, </em>she thought. She then looked to her nightstand, inches away from Harry, where she saw the largest assortment of ginger-flavored chews, candies, and lozenges she could ever recall.</p><p>“Jeez Harry, you didn’t have to go all out for me,” she laughed. Harry smiled a little, rather than join in the humor of it all. <em>Girl fights evil force, girl gets concussed, girl gets knocked out for 1-3 hours, ends up in bed, rinse and repeat. This is how it works…right? </em>Macy thought to herself that she had her Charmed routine down pat. Then, she began to grow nervous, seeing Harry’s peculiar expression—was he frowning or smiling? It seemed as though he were hiding something from her.</p><p>“Harry, where’s Mel and Maggie? <em>Did they make it out ok? </em>I thought this was a run-of-the-mill vanquishing, it was broad daylight, I had no idea this would happen, I swear—” Macy began, but Harry quietly interrupted her.</p><p>“Macy, they’re fine and both at work over at SafeSpace. Really, it’s <em>you </em>that I’m most concerned about,” Harry spoke gently.</p><p>“Why <em>me</em>?” Macy was perplexed. She was a Charmed One, a geneticist by trade, had a thriving business she worked all hours at during the time she wasn’t actively wedding planning. “Was I injured by the siren?” her voice squeaked up a notch.</p><p>“No,” said Harry, still wearing a somewhat serious expression. “By all accounts, you’re perfectly healthy, but you fainted and I had to orb you here, to your bedroom. I know wedding planning’s been on your mind, but I really think you should step back and let Maggie take the reins on some of it, so you can recoup your strength. Which gets me to my next item of discussion—”</p><p>“Which is?” asked Macy.</p><p>“Something peculiar occurred while you were passed out; a bright, white light emanated from just below your stomach for a few moments, then flickered and disappeared. Did you take any potion, medication, concoction, tincture, <em>anything </em>that could have had that as a possible side effect?”</p><p>“No,” said Macy, thinking over the past few weeks; she’d hardly had enough time to grab a glass of water or a piece of toast—when did she even have the time to medicate herself in the midst of this all?</p><p>“I didn’t expect you would have,” Harry responded in turn, mulling things over. “I told your sisters I would keep an eye on you, and that I would give you one last test, due to my own personal suspicions as to your condition.”</p><p>Macy cringed. <em>A test? </em>What exactly did Harry have in mind? “Whatever it is, can you get it over with, and fast? I love you, as you are my future husband and all, but that does not sound pleasant at all. And I have clients to attend to—and a wedding to plan—”</p><p>Harry reached over to the drawer in her nightstand, drew out a white plastic grocery bag, and pulled out a pregnancy test.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0045"><h2>45. JHMD: Brotherly Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>45: JHMD: Brotherly Love</p><p>
  <em>11 am, Vera Manor, Living Room</em>
</p><p>It was seven weeks after Harry proposed, and Macy was unconscious on the living room carpet. <em>This was not how Harry envisioned starting out married (or pre-married) life with Macy, that much he was certain… </em></p><p>
  <em>1:15 pm, Vera Manor, Macy’s Bedroom</em>
</p><p>Harry reached over to the drawer in her nightstand, drew out a white plastic grocery bag, and pulled out a pregnancy test.</p><p>Macy stared at the paper box, wrapped in clear plastic cling-wrap. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “Harry, when you used the word “test,” I thought you were going to use your whitelighting abilities on me, or something to that effect. As in, check my brain, my heart, my other key organs, my fingers, arms, legs, and muscular tissue. Isn’t that how whitelighting works?” Macy viewed the box with apparent skepticism, then peered back at Harry.</p><p>“I already checked, double-checked, <em>and </em>triple-checked those areas, all of which came back completely normal. I could check just below your stomach with my whitelighting abilities, but it feels like a gross violation of bodily privacy,” Harry stated, matter-of-factly, his cheeks turning a subtle shade of pink.</p><p>“Honestly, Harry, there’s <em>no </em>way on earth I’m pregnant—it’s just wedding nerves causing gastritis,” Macy was in denial. “That happens to every bride before they get married—they get so anxious they can’t focus on eating a proper meal. Besides,” she added, “if I were actually pregnant, as you seem so keen to believe, I’d have a whole host of symptoms, right?”</p><p>“Like upset stomach, lightheadedness, vertigo, fatigue, and a highly acute sensitivity to smells, such as Arabica almond-infused coffee beans?” answered Harry, without missing a beat, raising an eyebrow.</p><p>Macy groaned. “<em>Fine,”</em> she spat, yanking the paper box from Harry’s hands and proceeding into the bathroom.</p><p>“I love you too!” Harry shouted after her, now chuckling.</p><p>
  <em>1:30 pm, Vera Manor, Shared Bathroom</em>
</p><p>Macy tore off the plastic packaging, opened the paper box, and read the instructions, which were, apparently, to pee on a stick, wait a couple of minutes, then see the results. A “plus sign” of two intersecting blue lines indicated a positive result. No plus sign meant a negative result. Macy carefully unfolded the paper instructions that were included with the boxed packaging. Apparently, the test was most accurate when taken earlier in the day. <em>Which gave her an idea…</em>she shoved the box and its contents in the cabinet under the sink and left the bathroom.</p><p>
  <em>1:40 pm, Vera Manor, Macy’s Bedroom</em>
</p><p>“So…..?” asked Harry. “What’s the results?”</p><p>“I didn’t take it,” Macy answered flatly.</p><p>“<em>Why not?!” </em>exclaimed Harry.</p><p>“It’s most effective when taken first thing in the morning. If I do it now, it could cause a false reading, according to the instructions that probably nobody but me has ever taken the time to read,” Macy responded. “<em>Nice try, Harry,” </em>she added.</p><p>Harry groaned. “Macy, I’ve exhausted all of my healing options. If you pass out in a heap each time you do battle, this could endanger your sisters <em>and </em>yourself. If we don’t rule pregnancy out, I may have to refer you to a primary care physician friend of mine in the magical community for more invasive testing to figure out just what is up with that body of yours; to do otherwise would be negligence on my part as your Whitelighter.”</p><p>“<em>So much for bodily autonomy</em>,” Macy muttered under her breath.</p><p>
  <em>7 pm, Vera Manor, Kitchen</em>
</p><p>Dinnertime in Vera Manor was a rather tense affair. Mel and Maggie were glad to see that Macy was alive and seated at the dinner table, but they couldn’t help but notice the sidelong glances Harry made toward Macy, and how she answered them with nothing short of a death glare. <em>Perhaps they had a fight?</em> Mel and Maggie continued to observe them both throughout the course of the meal, which consisted of mashed sweet potatoes, meatloaf, and spinach, courtesy of Harry himself.</p><p>Mel and Maggie enjoyed the meatloaf, though Harry noticed that Macy continued to pick at her food, chewing her meatloaf in tiny, pea-sized bites, breaking each morsel apart and moving it around her plate to make it seem as though she’d eaten more than she actually had. Once dinner was over, Macy ran back upstairs, and Harry began washing the dishes. The tension was palpable; Mel quickly excused herself and made for the attic to read up on intricate potions, leaving just Harry and Maggie alone in the kitchen.</p><p>“Harry, did you and Macy have a fight?” Maggie asked warily; she thought that Harry’s dishtowel on his shoulder vaguely resembled a white linen burp cloth for a baby. She hoped that everything was ok, and that someday, she’d get a niece or nephew to spoil to her heart’s content, though perhaps it was doubtful, given the amount of friction she had witnessed between them just half an hour before. Macy had been positively <em>seething</em> with unspoken rage.</p><p>“No—not exactly,” Harry was unsure of how much he should disclose to Maggie. “We had a mild…<em>er</em>…disagreement of sorts, earlier today, but it should hopefully be resolved by tomorrow morning.” Maggie appeared relieved upon hearing those words.</p><p>“I hope so too, Harry. Oh, and thanks for the pads BTW. You’re like an awesome older brother to me, and I think you’d be a really great dad someday.” Maggie patted his shoulder reassuringly as she left the kitchen and proceeded upstairs.</p><p>“Thanks, Maggie,” Harry’s eyes softened at those words. “That really, truly means a lot.”   </p><p>
  <em>7:15 pm, Vera Manor, Shared Bathroom</em>
</p><p>Maggie retrieved her sanitary napkins perched on the outside of her bedroom and went to the shared bathroom to place them in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. Oddly, there was something already there, which was preventing her from doing so. She removed the offending object and placed her pads in the cabinet, then took a double-take. Said object was a <em>pregnancy test.</em> Putting two and two together, she clutched it as she raced over to Macy’s room, forgetting in her haste to knock, flinging the door wide open, then slamming it shut.</p><p>
  <em>7:18 pm, Vera Manor, Macy’s Bedroom</em>
</p><p>“<em>What is this?” </em>Maggie waved the paper box in Macy’s direction. Macy was in bed resting, though resting in her case meant checking her phone for client messages, reading through wedding ceremony articles online, and sucking on an uncrystallized ginger chew all the while. Macy looked up from the latest client email asking her for a set of elephant enzymes. She sighed.</p><p>“Nothing,” muttered Macy.</p><p>Maggie walked over and sat at the chair nearest Macy’s nightstand. “<em>This,</em>” Maggie waved the box, “does <em>not </em>look like “nothing.” Is there anything you’d like to tell me?” Macy tried to grab the box, but Maggie held it over her, just out of reach.</p><p>“I haven’t taken the test yet, so no—there’s absolutely nothing to tell,” replied Macy snippily. “All I want is to plan the wedding and boost my business, and Harry implies I’m a weakling. He claims that my passing out endangered us all and he keeps threatening to refer me to a physician for bloodwork if I don’t agree to pee on a stick. He even wanted you to help out with some of the wedding planning so I could rest.”</p><p>Maggie read the box’s instructions, then reached out to hold Macy’s hand. “Two things: number 1: physical symptoms are <em>not </em>a sign of weakness; number 2: realizing you need help is a source of strength. I know you’ll be pissed at me for saying this Mace, but maybe Harry’s right. Plus, <em>I love weddings. </em>This is my <em>forte</em>, my area of expertise.”</p><p>Macy knew Maggie had a point. Maybe it was time, after all, to accede the reins to her younger, bubbly, <em>certainly more energetic</em> sister, and realize for once in her life, it was impossible to control every little thing.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0046"><h2>46. JHMD: Two Sapphire Lines</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>46: JHMD: Two Sapphire Lines</p><p>
  <em>7:20 pm, 1 month and 3 weeks before the wedding, Vera Manor, Macy’s Bedroom</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was seven weeks after Harry proposed.</em>
</p><p>Macy knew Maggie had a point. Maybe it was time, after all, to accede the reins to her younger, bubbly, <em>certainly more energetic</em> sister, and realize for once in her life, it was impossible to control every little thing. “Ok Mags, you’re officially appointed my wedding planner.”</p><p>Maggie squealed in delight. “You won’t regret this!” Macy shot her a look. “<em>I mean, </em>thanks for the opportunity—this will be the <em>best </em>wedding ever.”</p><p>“I hope so, Mags. I just want a small outdoor Vera Manor wedding, some dancing, and cake—nothing too complicated, hopefully. I can’t stop getting overwhelmed by wedding websites and Harry wants this off my plate so I stop passing out on his watch.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Maggie spoke. “We were really worried when you fell into Harry’s arms after blast-barricading the siren, we all thought for a moment that…you were…well,” Maggie’s voice quavered,  “…<em>dead. </em>You really scared us, sis. It reminded Mel and I of Marisol.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Macy said, after a momentary pause. “I really didn’t mean to scare everyone that badly. It’s just that I’ve been feeling so off lately. I keep thinking it’s probably just wedding stress, but Harry wants me to test in case to rule anything else out. I told him I’d take it first thing tomorrow morning—I swear he’ll have my head if I forget.”</p><p>“Makes sense; as for feeling “off”—in what way?” Maggie asked curiously.</p><p>“Basically, I get stress-related stomachaches, I get lightheaded, have vertigo, pass out, and I can’t remember the last time I had a decent cup of coffee, my taste buds have been downright <em>weird,</em>” Macy thought aloud. “I’m approaching 30—maybe it’s extremely early onset Alzheimer’s?”</p><p>Maggie laughed. “I’m pretty sure it’s not Alzheimer’s. You’re only 29, for crying out loud.”</p><p>“True,” acknowledged Macy, finally managing to crack a smile. “Plus I’ve been unusually hormonal.”</p><p>“So take the test?” Maggie pointed at the box once more, now sitting upright on Macy’s nightstand.</p><p>Macy sighed. “If I take this test, and it comes out negative—I might wish it were positive, just to think about what could have been, in a wistful sort of way. But if it comes out positive, that means changing my entire life—I won’t be able to work with certain laboratory chemicals anymore. I won’t be able to fight battles with sirens and other mythical creatures. My life won’t become anything I thought it would be when we first became the Charmed Ones.”</p><p>“True—having a baby does change things,” Maggie said, “but what about the things you <em>can </em>do? Like dancing with your baby to your favorite songs? Seeing the awesome dad skills hidden beneath Harry’s sleeve? Or having outdoor family picnics under the tealights, all five of us, baby included? You can still operate your genetics business. Just sit back and have Harry, your lab assistant do all your grunt work, it’s literally your ‘get out of jail free’ card—” Macy laughed.</p><p>“I could switch to writing journal articles, I suppose—or do data-driven analyses on genetic samples rather than expose myself to the chemicals themselves,” Macy mused aloud, “both for future magical battles and for the field of genetics research as a whole. And maybe I can fight the mythical creatures, once those nine months are up.”</p><p>“<em>Exactly</em>. Now get some rest—I’m going to go plan us a <em>fabulous wedding!</em>” and with that, Maggie practically skipped out of the room, mentally flipping through her numerous Pinterest boards and visualizing various themes that could incorporate the sparkling tealights and natural beauty of the Vera Manor ivy.</p><p>
  <em>6:50 am, Next Morning, 1 month, 2 weeks, and 6 days before the wedding, Vera Manor, Kitchen</em>
</p><p><em>It was seven weeks and one day after the proposal. </em>Harry, unable to sleep, had gone downstairs into the kitchen to brew himself a cup of tea. <em>Earl Grey, </em>steeped for two minutes exactly. Macy had promised him last night to take the test, and he hoped that it would explain exactly why she had been feeling so under the weather lately.</p><p><em>What if she’s not pregnant?</em> The thought prickled at him. In that case, he and Macy would marry soon, and perhaps start a family of their own then. There was a part of him that secretly hoped that she was, however much he tried to silence the thought in his brain.</p><p><em>What if she doesn’t take the test? </em>Harry hoped, for Macy’s sake especially, that they wouldn’t have to call on an external medical provider. That would mean needles and drawing blood—not exactly pleasant stuff. He knew Macy could be incredibly stubborn when provoked, and he really did not fancy taking this option at all.</p><p><em>But, what if she </em>is<em> pregnant? </em>Harry pondered this wild thought for a bit while taking slow, small sips of his tea. He wouldn’t let himself get too excited at this point, because it was entirely possible that Macy was simply over-exerting herself, fighting battles and going a bit crazy with wedding planning. That must be it—maybe she had anemia, or iron deficiency, or Vitamin C deficiency like those soldiers he’d encountered back on the battlefield in the 1940s. <em>Could this be rickets? Maybe this is rickets…</em></p><p>
  <em>7 am, Vera Manor, Macy’s Bedroom to Shared Bathroom</em>
</p><p>Macy woke up early and saw that Harry had already gone downstairs into the kitchen to brew himself a cup of tea. She grabbed the test and went into the bathroom to reread the instructions. <em>What if it’s a false negative? Or a false positive? </em>She tried to quell these pesky thoughts from her brain. <em>It was way too early in the morning for this. </em>She proceeded to use the restroom, did as the instructions required, and waited for the stick to do whatever on earth it was supposed to.</p><p>
  <em>7:02 am, Vera Manor, Shared Bathroom</em>
</p><p>Holy. <em>Shit. </em>Macy counted out two minutes exactly and reviewed the results. Two perpendicular intersecting lines—a bright sapphire-colored plus sign.</p><p>
  <em>Pregnant. </em>
</p><p>Definitely, without a doubt, <em>pregnant.</em></p><p>
  <em>7:10 am, Vera Manor, Kitchen</em>
</p><p>Macy threw the paper box and instructions in the trash, rose from her previously seated position on the tiled bathroom floor, and went, as if in a trance, down the stairs to the kitchen, where Harry was nursing his steaming hot cup of tea. He looked up at her, as if in askance. <em>Could this be the moment their lives were going to change forever?</em></p><p>She walked up to Harry, showing him the positive stick. “Happy Father’s Day, Harry,” she whispered, as he rose, and, tearing up, gathered her in his arms in a quiet kiss.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0047"><h2>47. JHMD: A Morgana Morning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>47: JHMD: A Morgana Morning</p><p>
  <em>7:10 am, 1 month, 2 weeks, and 6 days before the wedding, Vera Manor, Kitchen</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Seven weeks and one day after the proposal. </em>
</p><p>She walked up to Harry, showing him the positive stick. “Happy Father’s Day, Harry,” she whispered, as he rose, and, tearing up, gathered her in his arms in a quiet kiss.</p><p>
  <em>7:30 am, Vera Manor, Kitchen</em>
</p><p>Harry and Macy stood embracing for the next ten or twenty minutes, staring in each other’s eyes in the rapturous awakening of the morning’s light, as the faint clamoring of footsteps down the Vera Manor staircase could be heard, growing ever louder.</p><p>
  <em>7:32 am, Vera Manor, Kitchen</em>
</p><p>Mel and Maggie ran into the kitchen, interrupting Harry and Macy’s tranquil embrace. “<em>So….</em>” Maggie looked from Harry to Macy and back again. Macy still misty-eyed, flashed the pregnancy stick in the air, with a shaky smile, as if to reply. <em>This was going to take awhile to sink in fully</em>, Macy thought to herself. <em>Am I really going to be someone’s mother in less than a year from now?</em></p><p>“We’re gonna be aunts!” Mel exclaimed. Squealing loudly, she and Maggie rushed over to Harry and Macy for one gigantic bear hug.</p><p>
  <em>9 am, 1 month, 2 weeks, before the wedding, Vera Manor, Maggie’s Bedroom</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eight weeks after the proposal. </em>
</p><p>Maggie’s sense of style and organization were quite admirable; she had converted her own room into an ornate wedding planning hub, with a desk and chair for her own use, and a comfy chair for Macy, as if this were a formal consultation service. <em>In a sense, Macy supposed it was. </em>Macy typically touched base with her there for wedding-only topics about twice or three times a day, which to her was more than enough nuptial discussion for her. Having the hub there was quite useful—that way, Macy could easily compartmentalize that aspect of her life, delegate the duties to Maggie, and avoid a great deal of stress in the process.</p><p>“Let’s go down the list of items, shall we?” Maggie faced Macy from her desk seat. “Your gown is purchased (luckily, it’s empire-waisted and you’re 3.5 months along when the wedding rolls around so no tailoring needed). Invitations to the magical community” (<em>Maggie fished out a short list of possible guests, doing a once-over) </em>“have gone out two days ago, and we’re awaiting the RSVP’s. Music is more or less doable on equipment borrowed from SafeSpace’s resident DJ, and our dear friend Chloe agreed to cover floral arrangements.”</p><p>“What’s next?” Macy asked.</p><p>“Last names, for the ceremony,” Maggie replied. “Have you and Harry given some thought about whether you’ll be Dr. Macy Vaughn? Or Dr. Macy Greenwood?”</p><p>“Honestly, I don’t know. My current choices seem to be Dr. Vaughn, Dr. Greenwood, Dr. Vaughn-Greenwood (<em>sounds too long</em>). There’s also some other alternatives Harry and I have been mulling over…” Macy hesitated. “We thought about both of us taking the last name Vera, but then we realized “Harry Vera” sounded a little weird.”</p><p>“Yeah, it kind of does,” Maggie cringed, then continued reviewing her list of items.</p><p>“We did think about Valensi too,” added Macy. “It has an extensive Azorian-Portuguese history and sounds easy on the ears. <em>Macy Valensi. Harry Valensi. </em>Plus, it harkens back to Darcy, Della, and Dora, the Charmed Ones of the Azores, my great-great aunts.”</p><p>“Hmmmm…sounds classy and sophisticated, with the added bonus of magical name recognition,” remarked Maggie aloud. “That <em>certainly </em>has its possibilities; why don’t you and Harry think about it more in the coming weeks, then get back to me.” Maggie paused, her pen hovering over a bulleted to-do task. “<em>Oh. </em>And what about ceremonial aspects, on a separate topic? Who do you want being in the ceremony? Officiant? <em>Et cetera</em>…”</p><p>Macy relaxed her posture. <em>This one was easy enough to decide, but would Maggie be able to make this happen? </em>“I want you, Maggie, to be my dual Bridesmaid/Wedding Planner, and for Mel to be my dual Bridesmaid/Wedding Officiant—she’s the only one I trust to do the ceremony right. Can we make that happen?”</p><p>“Sure,” said Maggie. “I’ll figure out the paperwork and will make sure she gets ordained online. No idea how long it takes but if Elvis can officiate quickie Vegas weddings, anything’s possible.” Macy seemed sufficiently reassured by Maggie’s words.</p><p>Macy continued onward with her ceremonial thoughts. “Harry wants Jordan as his Best Man, and” here, Macy stopped.</p><p>“What is it Mace?” asked Maggie. “Who else do you want in your wedding party?”</p><p>“Can Matias walk me down the aisle?”</p><p>
  <em>11 am, 1 month before the wedding, Vera Manor, Living Room</em>
</p><p>Macy laid on her back on the Vera Manor living room’s sofa. She wondered how many witches had come before her and whether any of them recalled receiving sonograms on said Victorian furniture. Macy rubbed her fingers over the thick velveteen fabric, taking in the oddness of the entire situation. If she had never become a Charmed One, she would have been in a sterile, cold white clinic by a complete stranger who she was supposed to trust with her life.</p><p>As it were, Morgana was Matias’ elderly red-headed neighbor and lifelong friend who happened to be a retired obstetrician; when Matias broke the news of Macy’s pregnancy to her less than a week ago, she had jumped at the chance to oversee the development of a Charmed One’s pregnancy—it would be the crowning achievement of her decades-long career issuing magical folk into the world. Harry squatted down to hold Macy’s hand as Morgana motioned for Macy to bare her stomach, rubbing cold gel all over it. <em>Macy winced</em>. “Are you alright, Macy?” Harry noticed her expression and became concerned.</p><p>“I-I’m fine. It’s just really cold—it startled me,” Macy replied, as Morgana began opening her large floral-printed handbag, pulling out, à-la-Mary Poppins, a state-of-the art portable ultrasound machine. Turning on the device, Morgana dipped the ultrasound wand into the gel, rubbing it all over Macy’s lower belly. Suddenly, a rapid <em>thump-thump-thump-thump-thump </em>could be heard. “Is that--?” Macy regarded Morgana hesitatingly.</p><p>“The heartbeat?” Morgana briskly replied. “Yes, it most certainly is. Quite a strong one too, 170 beats per minute which is normal in this ten-week timeframe.” Harry and Macy held each other’s hand tightly. <em>The whole scene seemed surreal</em>, Harry thought to himself. Back when he was born, he hadn’t recalled this technology available at all, even in the finest of hospital establishments; modern medicine had really evolved a great deal.</p><p>“Ten weeks? Are you sure?” murmured Macy. She hadn’t recalled the last time she was intimate with Harry, between planning for next month and dealing with her most recent clients that wanted her to write a journal article about mastodons, a Pleistocene-era elephant-like creature dating back 10,000-11,000 years. <em>Perhaps she should do something about that, </em>she mused to herself.</p><p>“Yes,” Morgana stated. “You’re ten weeks pregnant <em>exactly</em>—in other words, two months along, seven months to go, though by the 38-week to 40-week mark it’s anyone’s guess.” She quickly wiped Macy’s stomach clean of the sticky gel, using a disposable paper towel, and switched off and stowed away the ultrasound machine. “Macy, I advise that you obtain 8-10 hours of sleep on the regular, eat nutritious meals that your stomach will tolerate—” Morgana peered over Macy’s form at Harry, who understood that meal preparation, for now at least, was <em>his </em>job as the future father of Macy’s child. “Open combat with magical forces is not specifically barred if <em>absolutely </em>necessary, but <em>highly </em>frowned upon otherwise.”</p><p>“Basically, you’re saying,” Macy spoke up, “to avoid all magical combat unless the creature is specifically coming after me and the baby and I have no other choice?”</p><p>“Correct,” affirmed Morgana. “Keep delegating your wedding tasks to your sister; you need to keep your mind as stress-free as humanly possible.” She verified that her medical equipment was fully stowed in her heavy handbag and made as if to orb out, but—</p><p>Just then, a diamond-colored light appeared again over Macy’s lower body, circling her belly, flickering away. “Morgana, what was that?” Macy asked.</p><p>“Oh! Well <em>fancy that! </em>It seems as if we have ourselves a little Whitelighter who wanted to say hi to its parents.” Harry and Macy stared at each other incredulously, at Macy’s belly, then back up at Morgana, who was now positively beaming with joy. “Take care of that little one. I’ll be back next month!” And with that, Morgana vanished.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0048"><h2>48. JHMD: A Coconut Craving</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>48: JHMD: A Coconut Craving</p><p>
  <em>11 am, 1 month before the wedding, Vera Manor, Living Room</em>
</p><p>“Oh! Well <em>fancy that! </em>It seems as if we have ourselves a little Whitelighter who wanted to say hi to its parents.” Harry and Macy stared at each other incredulously, at Macy’s belly, then back up at Morgana, who was now positively beaming with joy. “Take care of that little one. I’ll be back next month!” And with that, Morgana vanished.</p><p>
  <em>11:05 am, Vera Manor, Living Room</em>
</p><p>“Wow,” Macy said in awe, as she rose to a sitting position, now looking at the sonogram photo of the fetus that Morgana had provided her. Harry looked over her shoulder. <em>A head, tiny arms, little legs. Everyone procreates and has been since the beginning of time, but when it was your own baby, somehow something so commonplace felt downright miraculous, </em>he thought to himself. <em>Especially when the baby was a product of the woman he was absolutely enamored with.</em></p><p>Harry half-expected Macy to utter something transcendental or philosophical, about how birthing a child would change her, or something just as profound. Instead, Macy still appeared somewhat shell-shocked. “How…<em>how </em>on earth did this happen?”</p><p>“Well, Macy, technically, when a man and a woman love each other <em>very much—</em>,” Harry hid a fleeting smirk.</p><p>“I know my human reproductive anatomy, <em>thanks</em>,” Macy responded testily. “I mean, I’ve been so busy lately—I can’t remember the last time we—” her voice faltered.</p><p>“Counting back to ten weeks ago—what momentous occasion occurred ten weeks ago, pray tell?” Harry instantaneously knew the answer as always, but was cognizant of the fact that Macy, being mortal, though no less gifted in the area of intellect, needed time and space to do her own fact-finding. She read through her phone’s calendar, counting back the weeks, until it suddenly hit her.</p><p>“<em>SafeSpace Post Prom.</em>”</p><p>
  <em>11:10/6:10 pm Azores, Vera Manor, Kitchen</em>
</p><p>Harry looked at Macy for a moment, knowing that she finally understood the<em> where, </em>and <em>when</em>. The clock chimed, startling them both. It was noon.</p><p>“Do you want anything from the kitchen to eat?” Harry asked, placing the sonogram photo on the fridge using a nearby magnet. Macy grimaced slightly. <em>There wasn’t a single thing she found appetizing inside or outside the fridge. </em>She was sick of plain toast with peanut butter, bland oatmeal gave her the heaves, and if she so much as smelled rotisserie chicken again…<em>ugh.</em> To be honest, she could’ve gone for a coquito, but as that contained alcohol, that certainly wasn’t possible. <em>The coconut itself, however…</em></p><p>Macy shook her head after some time. “I could really go for some fresh coconut though.”</p><p>Harry smiled. It was the first time Macy had thought of eating something other than dry toast, which to him seemed woefully insufficient for a growing fetus. “Let’s get our things, I know just the place.”</p><p>
  <em>6:30 pm Faial Island, Azores, Open Market</em>
</p><p>“Harry, where exactly are we?” Macy looked around the stalls uncertainly. It seemed as though she was in the Azores, but she didn’t recall ever being in this particular section before. She could see bundles of rambutans, succulent maroon-colored lychee fruit that she knew held floral-scented, sweet nectar within, bushels upon bushels of miniature plantain bananas of every which size, shape, and color. Harry had taken his time orbing, and Macy was grateful, since this time, she hadn’t experienced as much dizziness as before.</p><p>“The fruit market of Faial—one of the adjoining isles. Wait here, love,” Harry replied, then disappeared into the throng of customers for ten minutes or so, reappearing with a small brown paper bag of guavas, pre-sliced coconuts, miniature plantain bananas, and other items. Macy closed her eyes and breathed in the warm ocean breeze; she felt better already.</p><p>
  <em>7 pm Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23</em>
</p><p>Harry plucked a handful of pre-sliced coconut from the paper bag, rinsed them thoroughly, then placed them on a cutting board, mincing the fruit into smaller, bite-sized cubes. He placed these in a small teacup and walked through the screened door to the balcony, where Macy sat in her ecru chair. He presented the coconut to her along with a glass of ginger-flavored sparkling water, a wedge of lime atop the cup’s rim. “For you, Dr. Vaughn.”</p><p>She graciously accepted. “Oh, <em>my, </em>Mr. Greenwood, you certainly <em>do </em>know how to spoil a woman.”</p><p>“It’s the least I could do, given that I’ve put you into this peculiarly delicate situation,” Harry answered.</p><p>“<em>Pregnancy</em>, Harry. I’m not delicate—just <em>pregnant.</em> And if I recall correctly, <em>I </em>was the one blindfolding you in the nude,” replied Macy, as Harry’s cheeks turned a shade of pink at <em>that </em>particular memory in question. She continued on. “Call it what it is. I’m knocked up, preggers, a bun in my oven, positively <em>enceinte</em>—”</p><p>Harry’s spine tingled at the word <em>enceinte</em>. The French word for <em>pregnant. </em>He, Harry Greenwood, had made Macy Vaughn <em>enceinte </em>in a nocturnal act of pure, unadulterated passion that involved Macy’s unzipped crimson red, tulle gown and a black cloth blindfold that obscured his vision, even if for only a moment, before he ripped it off and their amorous activity had begun. <em>He shivered. </em>It made him picture all manner of incredibly inappropriate things that a Whitelighter was not supposed to think of. <em>Body parts changing, purely as a result of his silvery-hot, fecund seed. The glow emanating from her soft womb, the—</em></p><p>“Harry!” Macy spoke suddenly.</p><p>“What is it?” Harry asked, jolted out of his Macy-centric, wandering thoughts.</p><p>“Matias is stopping by for a few, he wanted to ask how Morgana’s obstetric observation went, and we’re discussing a few last-minute wedding details,” said Macy, still seated in the balcony.</p><p>Harry groaned, his eyes cast downward at his now-emerging erection. <em>Unfortunately, this would have to wait.</em></p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0049"><h2>49. JHMD: E is for Enceinte</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>49: JHMD: E is for Enceinte</p><p>
  <em>8 pm, 1 month before the wedding, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23</em>
</p><p>Both Macy and Harry assured Matias that the fetal exam had gone smoothly, strong heartbeat and all, <em>with a hint of whitelighter, </em>Harry proudly added. Macy had discussed a few last-minute wedding details with Matias, which mostly consisted of the Vera Manor garden’s layout, where to walk, and the possible pace of the music. Then, Matias and the couple said their goodbyes, as Matias exited their condo and walked next door to his own home to chop bundles of herbs for tomorrow morning’s marketplace adventure.</p><p>And suddenly, just like that, Macy and Harry were alone again, once more, in their Azores condo.</p><p>
  <em>8:15 pm Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Master Bathroom Shower</em>
</p><p>Macy rose from her balcony chair, washed and put the empty glass and cup away in the kitchen, and proceeded to the master bathroom for a shower. Earlier, she had noticed Harry breathing raggedly when she had said various pregnancy-related synonyms, especially the word <em>enceinte. </em>Harry, wanting to be polite, said that he would sit on the king-sized bed, stare at a random spot of the ceiling, and give her privacy while washing up.</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Macy said, grabbing his hand and holding it fast, pulling him into the bathroom and closing the door. “<em>Enceinte,” </em>she whispered in his ear.</p><p>Harry’s spine tingled at the word <em>enceinte</em>. The French word for <em>pregnant. </em>He, Harry Greenwood, had made Macy Vaughn <em>enceinte </em>in a nocturnal act of pure, unadulterated passion that involved Macy’s unzipped crimson red, tulle gown and a black cloth blindfold that obscured his vision, even if for only a moment, before he ripped it off and their amorous activity had begun. <em>He shivered. </em>It made him picture all manner of incredibly inappropriate things that a Whitelighter was not supposed to think of, especially now, as Macy undressed in front of his very eyes and turned on the shower tap, allowing for steam to fill the room.</p><p><em>Body parts changing, purely as a result of his silvery-hot, fecund seed. </em>Harry noticed that Macy’s breasts were lined with many thin blue-green veins, and more swollen than he ever recalled before. He would have been perfectly content just watching her body as it was. He was worried that she was fragile, even if she did not herself realize it—he, after all, had caught her unconscious form as the mythical siren had been vanquished. But Macy moved closer, slowly undressing him, removing his shirt, his pants, his undergarments. Macy reached out for Harry’s hand, and placed it on one of her breasts, and he sucked his breath in sharply. <em>Gods, may this moment never end…</em></p><p><em>“</em>You, Harry Greenwood, made me <em>enceinte,</em>” Macy whispered. “Feel what you have made me.”</p><p>“W-what if I hurt you?” asked Harry uncertainly.</p><p>“You won’t, if you proceed slowly,” Macy replied. In response, Harry brought his fingers from the base of her breast, to the nipple, which he slowly rotated, then began fondling, his ministrations causing Macy to utter an involuntary moan—“<em>keep going,”</em> she hissed. He reached tentatively for her other breast, giving equal attention, silently acknowledging the fullness it had become in the mere several weeks that his potent seed had sprang from him. “<em>You did this to me,” </em>she breathed.</p><p>Harry groaned, his eyes cast downward at his now-emerging erection. He never once thought, in a million years, that he would be sharing a fast-steaming bathroom with the curly-haired woman he used to look across the room at—the goddess he would constantly pine over—who was now his pregnant lover—no, make that <em>fiancée</em>. <em>How on earth had he gotten this lucky? </em>The nerdish academia-driven Harry Greenwood he once knew wore septuagenarian sweater vests, an archaic cummerbund, and a dowdy suit jacket; somehow, being with Macy made him feel younger—and most importantly of all, <em>alive</em>. He noticed, in the months preceding their intimate encounters, a subconscious shift in his wardrobe to leather jackets, modern “off-the-rack” sweaters, and the removal of those stuffy neckties that the Elders used to require as part of his Whitelighter uniform. <em>Thank heavens for that, </em>Harry mused to himself, though he realized that even before his clothing switch, Macy had still found himself quite appealing, likely courtesy of his dark side<em>. Not that he minded in the slightest—not now, at least.</em></p><p>Macy stepped into the shower to adjust the temperature, and Harry followed just behind, reaching over to massage and cup her sensitive, enlarged breasts, rubbing his erection in circles at the base of her spine. He moved his hand to gently stroke the area below her navel, where the product of their last sexual encounter lay embedded, interwoven in the very fabric of her tissues, causing that area to protrude ever-so-slightly, a mere shadow of the burgeoning bump that would follow in the months to come. “<em>Mine,” </em>Harry spoke in a low growl that made Macy’s toes curl, and bending his knees, lowered his visage to her entrance, venturing a tentative lick, then several more, slowly tasting and reacquainting himself with her new perfume, that was brought about by his innermost essence tempestuously combining with hers.</p><p>Macy whimpered as Harry continued the elegant movements of his tongue through her manifold areas. Her pregnancy meant that those intimate parts were increasingly sensitive now, engorged and surrounded by an interlacing symphony of nerve endings, offering an experience more erotic, and altogether—<em>more orgasmic</em>, he thought to himself. Macy laid a hand on the bathroom tile in front of her to steady herself, as her breathing grew increasingly haggard. But another thought quickly struck Harry—“I’m not <em>hurting </em>you, am I?” he asked anxiously. Macy shook her head.</p><p>“<em>Don’t stop,” </em>she hissed. Harry took that as his cue to continue what he had started, tracing figure eights, or infinity signs, however one would interpret them, along her tiny, pulsating pearl. Macy’s moaning grew louder, and her legs began to give out. Seeing this Harry lifted her so that she straddled him. “<em>You, in me. NOW,” </em>she murmured in his ear. Harry obliged, entering her slowly as they both exhaled, absorbing the aching vulnerability of his bare skin touching hers. He could feel himself leak just the tiniest of his silvery lifeblood, but he was not concerned; Macy was already <em>his, </em>impregnated by <em>him</em>, indicative of loving and being loved in return, in the most sensually primal of ways.</p><p>“<em>Bloody hell,” </em>Harry groaned, as they rhythmically moved their bodies against each other, together, cavorting in an erotic tangle of supple, fertile limbs—cautiously, deferentially at first, then faster, with a fiery, cataclysmic Jan Van Eyckian orgiastic nature that was utterly, devastatingly mind-blowing.</p><p>Macy, sensing he was close, having felt him grow hotter and harder within her, dug her nails into Harry’s upper back, causing him to gasp loudly. “<em>Enceinte,” </em>she whispered into his ear, and he came, exploding into her in entirety; both remained adjoined as they rode the waves of their pleasure.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0050"><h2>50. HMV: Introspection, and a Lohengrin Processional</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>50: HMV: Introspection, and a Lohengrin Processional</p><p>
  <em>5 pm, Vera Manor, Macy’s Bedroom</em>
</p><p>Fifteen weeks pregnant, Macy had finally entered the blissful glow of second trimester pregnancy. She could finally stomach more than a slice of peanut butter-covered toast and tablespoonfuls of coconut, and for that, she was grateful. Luckily for her, it was just in time for the wedding, which was, as a matter of fact, occurring in exactly one hour. <em>Today.</em></p><p>Macy looked outside her window; she saw Maggie ordering people about, telling them which way to turn, how to reach the garden through the front doors, and so on. <em>She really would make an excellent professional wedding planner someday,</em> Macy thought to herself, <em>if ever Maggie took that route. </em>Macy had already offered her payment for her services but Maggie turned it down, stating that the best reward would be an excellent time had, and a healthy niece or nephew, besides. It was still too early to determine the gender, but Macy had a feeling, based on her cravings (<em>fresh fruit, sweets) </em>and aversions (<em>rotisserie chicken</em>), that it was sure to be a girl. Whenever she broached the subject to Harry, he deflected, saying that as long as they had a healthy, live baby, any gender was perfectly fine by him.</p><p>
  <em>5:30 pm, Vera Manor, Macy’s Bedroom</em>
</p><p>Macy carefully donned her foundation makeup, blush, and lip moisturizer. She added a touch of gold-colored eyeshadow, creating the illusion of a curved shadow with accompanying deep-bronze shading, and surveyed the results (<em>Maggie had found her a makeup tutorial online)</em>. Finding this to her satisfaction, she unzipped the nearby garment bag and carefully removed her empire-waisted, diaphanous wedding gown. She unbuttoned and unlaced and unzipped the fabric, and stepped in, buttoning and lacing and zipping herself in. Macy stared at herself in the upright ellipsis-shaped mirror for a few minutes, absorbing the enormity of her decision to make Harry the Whitelighter her husband.</p><p>She pondered this thought, which unavoidably led her to think of her mother, Marisol. <em>Had she, too, looked at herself in this very mirror, wearing a pearl-colored floor-length gown on her wedding day? </em>Had her mother been blissfully happy, or scared and anxious of the future? Did Marisol have any idea what would soon befall her, her husband, Macy, Mel, and Maggie? <em>Macy took a deep breath.</em> For most of her life, she had thought that Marisol had abandoned her and her father Dexter—walked out on them abruptly when she was a toddler. Even when she was in grade school, she thought of one day confronting her mother, asking how on earth she could leave Macy behind as a baby; but then, a simultaneous thought would always emerge—<em>what if you weren’t good enough for Marisol? What if, at age 2, she took one look at you, realized you disappointed her, and—she left?</em></p><p>Macy now knew this was not the case; Marisol had to leave, due to the necromancer agreement that kept her daughter above the ground, rather than six feet under. There were always lingering feelings of guilt though, that her very existence had forced two happy people, Marisol and Dexter, apart, creating additional lives under the secrecy of shadows. <em>Survivor’s guilt</em>, Macy thought to herself. Turning to her side to view her shifted silhouette, she saw a small bump that she hadn’t noticed just one week before. <em>Baby M</em>, she mused, touching the area protectively<em>. </em>She and Harry were nowhere near deciding on a name, but Macy was sure that she wanted the baby to share the first letter of its name with its mother and future aunts. <em>Marisol had made the ultimate sacrifice to save her</em>, she realized. Macy often heard news stories of how mothers had a sudden rush of adrenaline and would rescue their children from the most insurmountable of situations. <em>A mother’s love is instinctual, and truly knows no bounds.</em></p><p>
  <em>5:40 pm, Vera Manor, Macy’s Bedroom </em>
</p><p>After makeup, the next order of business was adhering to the adage “<em>something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.” </em>Her “something new” was her wedding gown; her “something old” was an heirloom locket photo of her father Dexter, worn across her wrist in bracelet form.</p><p><em>Dexter. </em>Her father had been any number of things—strict, demanding, strong-minded, downright <em>stubborn</em>, like Macy—but Macy had always thought, as a girl growing up, that no matter their differences or educational philosophies (<em>public versus boarding school</em>), he would walk her down the aisle when the time came for her to be married. She had taken so much of life for granted, growing up with the full attention of her father on her education and career aspirations. Macy knew that it was mostly because of him that she became a postdoctoral genetics researcher. Even as he lectured her about her lack of solid career aspirations in college, Macy understood, deep down, that he was doing so from a place of love.</p><p>
  <em>5:45 pm, Vera Manor, Macy’s Bedroom</em>
</p><p>The “something borrowed” element was Maggie’s crystal chandelier earrings, which Maggie was more than happy to lend Macy for the big day. Macy removed these from a small silken pouch on her bureau, fitted them on, and noticed as its sparkles glittered from a corner of the room, then spread across the walls as she moved her head to the left and right.</p><p>Finally, her “something blue” was courtesy of Matias, who had personally hand-delivered to her earlier that day an ivory-colored Azorian wreath of blossoms he and Morgana had designed; this was to be worn as a floral crown on her head, an island wedding tradition dating back centuries. In a back corner of the wreath, Matias had woven in a tiny blue cornflower blossom, symbolizing positivity, hope for the future, and a humble reminder of nature’s beauty and the fullness of life’s cycle, a clever tongue-in-cheek acknowledgement of the baby that lay nestled within her.</p><p>
  <em>6 pm, Vera Manor, Macy’s Bedroom</em>
</p><p>Macy heard a knock at the door. <em>Maggie. </em>She answered, and Maggie asked whether she was ready to proceed down the aisle. “Yes—yes I am,” Macy said, gathering her skirts, putting on her comfortable white kitten heel shoes, and opening the door to the evening magic that was soon to unfold.</p><p>
  <em>6:05 pm, Vera Manor</em>
</p><p>The beginning of the procession was a blur. <em>The procession’s order—how did it go again? </em>Macy recalled Maggie’s words from last night, after the cozy seven-person rehearsal dinner under the starry skies (consisting of Harry, herself, Maggie and Jordan, Matias and Morgana, and Mel). Maggie had made a fusion variation of <em>papas con chile </em>(skillet spiced potatoes), turning the dish into a comfort food casserole variant with chorizo at the bottom, a nod to the Shepherd’s Pie dish that Harry had made for them in the past. <em>Ah, yes. </em>The order was, as Macy remembered it: officiant (Mel), groom (Harry, of course), bridesmaid and best man (Maggie and Jordan), then herself and Matias.</p><p>What Macy <em>didn’t </em>know about the days leading up to today, however, were the bits of wedding drama that threatened to wreak havoc on the day of her and Harry’s nuptials. Mel had hesitatingly approached Maggie one week earlier, inquiring as to whether she could bring a plus-one in the form of Abigael herself. Maggie, knowing that the very sight of Abigael would cause extreme social discomfort as a veritable walking faux-pas, not to mention Macy’s anguish at a beautiful day ruined, flatly said <em>hell no</em>, to the surprise of no one. Maggie refused to let Macy be a guinea pig in Mel’s less-than-promising social experiment of Abigael’s absorption into polite, non-violent society. <em>It was for the best that Macy and Harry never find out</em>, Maggie decided.</p><p>A secondary bit of wedding drama wasn’t <em>exactly </em>wedding drama, but Maggie still classified it as such, as she had no idea what else it could fall under. Maggie had fully expected Matias to show up alone to the rehearsal dinner, but as he was allowed a plus-one, he brought Morgana, his red-haired neighbor and Macy’s obstetrician, who had shown up wearing a dark emerald-green dress that complemented the auburn color of her tresses. When Matias had offered to help put the dishes away after dinner, Maggie had asked whether he and Morgana were…<em>dating? Seeing each other? </em>She settled on the word “<em>involved.” </em>He was silent for some seconds—Maggie was worried she had overstepped, clarifying hastily that she had no right to pry into an octogenarian’s love life. But he waved her off, saying that he and Morgana had been involved—<em>married, </em>as a matter of fact—a few decades ago, and that his quiet serial monogamist nature clashed with her adamant desire to remain child-free, coupled with long, frenetic 24+ hour shifts as the island’s only mystical obstetrician. After many lifestyle-related arguments, they had decided back then that they were better off apart but continued to live amicably as neighbors. <em>And perhaps even more, by the looks of it</em>, Maggie mused, seeing how Morgana’s eyes sparkled a certain way every time they fell upon Matias.</p><p>
  <em>6:10 pm, Vera Manor</em>
</p><p>Macy’s mind was racing, juxtaposed with her generational memories of Darcy, Jimmy Westwell, and the once-baby Matias that now grasped her arm, as they slowly walked down the Vera Manor staircase, adorned with a mixture of tapered camellias, fragrant plumerias, sweetly-scented damask peonies, pink roses, and decorative fern, olive branches, and laurel that Macy recognized from Matias’ front garden. <em>Chloe had really outdone herself this time in the flower arrangement department</em>, Macy thought to herself, pleasantly surprised, as her legs carried her step-by-step, as if in a dream-like haze, through the open patio glass doors, past the crowd of magical folk, up to the ivy-bound trellis alcove where Harry was to meet her.</p><p>
  <em>6:10 pm, Vera Manor Garden Trellis</em>
</p><p>Harry’s mouth dropped open, seeing Macy walk down the aisle wearing an exquisite floral crown above her wavy hair; her dress reminded him of Jane Austenian literature, and he almost wanted to pinch himself. <em>Was this really happening? </em>Time seemed to move in slow motion, as minutes felt like days, felt like weeks, morphing into the reminiscence of a forgotten few decades, reawakening the latent history of perhaps a <em>century, </em>as he saw her step carefully up to the ivy-laden trellis to the familiarly faint instrumental tune of the 1850s “Lohengrin” Wedding March, under the myriad of tea lights twinkling overhead. “<em>Who are you, and what have you done with my fiancée?” </em>he whispered under his breath to Macy. She giggled, at last breaking her solemn expression.</p><p>“Fancy meeting <em>you </em>under the ivy trellis, <em>Mr. Greenwood.</em>”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0051"><h2>51. HMV: A Vera Manor Wedding</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>51: HMV: A Vera Manor Wedding</p><p>
  <em>6:10 pm, Vera Manor Garden Trellis</em>
</p><p>“Fancy meeting <em>you </em>under the ivy trellis, <em>Mr. Greenwood.</em>”</p><p>“The pleasure is all mine, <em>Dr. Vaughn,</em>” Harry replied in a throaty whisper that made Macy’s toes involuntarily curl in her kitten-toe heels, which were thankfully hidden beneath her ivory gown.</p><p>“<em>Ahem.</em>” Mel looked at both Harry and Macy. “It is time for the wedding ceremony to begin.”</p><p>And so it did.</p><p>There were a few well-placed platitudes about finding love in the most hidden of places, various ceremonial recitations, and then a particularly well-chosen Beau Taplin quote from his Astronomy Anthology that went as follows:</p><p>
  <em>“Do you want to know what it was? The moment I knew you were it? It was when I showed you the darkest parts of me and instead of running away, you rolled out a blanket, lay down on your back, and pointed out the stars.”</em>
</p><p>The ceremony was still, at times, a blur due to Macy’s and Harry’s nervousness at being stared at by others in this momentous occasion of making their intentions to each other fully public. About three-quarters of the way through the ceremony, Mel motioned for Jordan, the best man, to come forward and present the wedding rings, which he did. Mel beckoned for Harry to recite his vows, as he placed a wedding ring on Macy’s left ring finger, to sit flush against her three-stone emerald-cut moissanite engagement ring. It was then Macy’s turn to recite her vows and place a platinum 5 mm plain silver-colored band on Harry’s left ring finger. This part of the ceremony seemed to move at a tortoise’s pace, but then quickly sped up, as Mel looked to Macy and Harry—she looked toward the expectant audience, stating, “I now pronounce you…Mr. and Dr. Valensi!”</p><p>Matias looked astonished—Macy mouthed, “<em>Surprise!</em>” She had not told him, nor anyone else, save Mel, of her and Harry’s intent to continue his family line. Recovering from his initial shock, he grinned and gave two thumbs up. <em>He approves, </em>thought Macy happily, as she linked arms with Harry, stepped down from the trellis alcove, and proceeded through the throng of well-wishers.</p><p>
  <em>7 pm, Vera Manor Garden </em>
</p><p>Maggie made quick work of instructing her assistants (<em>namely, Goat Man and Chloe) </em>to rearrange the wedding attendees’ chairs into circles around newly-arrived tables. Ordinarily, this would take upwards of an hour, but magic helped move things along just a bit quicker. Macy looked around; she was amazed that so many in the magical community had shown up to the ceremony; to be honest, she thought that she would be proceeding up the aisle to an empty audience. Her parents were both deceased, and due to relocation of Vera Manor, nobody really knew that she and her sisters were very much alive. She didn’t have any boarding school friends that she kept in touch with, and she spent most of the latter part of her educational career as a veritable hermit in the laboratory, so there was really no hard loss there to speak of.</p><p>
  <em>7:30 pm, Vera Manor Garden </em>
</p><p>Maggie and Mel gave their sisterly speeches of how Harry had come into their lives as a Whitelighter, and gradually became their surrogate brother. Whether it was the pregnancy hormones or the sentimentality of their words, Macy felt her eyes well up with tears.</p><p>
  <em>7:45 pm, Vera Manor Garden </em>
</p><p>Harry tapped her on the shoulder and offered his hand, which Macy rose from her seat to accept; it was time for their first dance as a newlywed couple, to the upbeat, staccato tune of Melanija Paradis’ latest hit, “It Was Always You,” which went something like this:</p><p>
  <em>…I can’t deny those sparks that flew,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Came from me, and met by you,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I couldn’t say no forever,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Because where I stood, it was always you…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You-u-u-u-u-u-u (2x)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Tempering my feelings never worked—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Try as hard as I might,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I loved you then and I love you now,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And I can’t let you outta my sight…</em>
</p><p>The person who sang the song sounded vaguely familiar—as Harry swung her around and twirled her, she noticed, with a sudden shock, that it was Maggie singing! Apparently, she had been practicing between her shifts at SafeSpace and wedding planning and had meant to surprise Macy all along. <em>Macy laughed aloud and grinned; she couldn’t have wished for a better family.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Note: Beau Taplin is an internationally recognized poet and social media sensation whose topics cover matters of the heart.</p><p>Author's Note: This saga is wrapping up in the next couple of chapters or so. It's been an AMAZING journey so far! (But don't worry, I have a couple of fanfics currently being brainstormed ;)</p><p>Complete lyrics to Melanija Paradis' "It Was Always You":<br/>Dropped into your arms I was,<br/>Seeking the fruit of knowledge,<br/>Wandering this world alone,<br/>As I walked out of college.</p><p>I can't deny those sparks that flew,<br/>Came from me and met by you,<br/>I couldn't say no forever,<br/>Because where I stood, it was always you.<br/>You-u-u-u-u-u-u (2x)</p><p>Fate always played an odd hand,<br/>We always met but never soared<br/>But now we've touched solid ground,<br/>You are mine forevermore.</p><p>Tempering my feelings never worked--<br/>Try as hard as I might,<br/>I loved you then and I love you now,<br/>And I can't let you outta my sight.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0052"><h2>52. HMV: A Quiet Moment Alone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>52: HMV: A Quiet Moment Alone</p><p>
  <em>7 pm, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23</em>
</p><p>At six months pregnant, Macy’s bladder felt as though it was the size of a pea. Her feet were constantly swollen, and the intermittent lower back pain she experienced was something she wouldn’t have wished on her worst enemy.</p><p>“Braxton Hicks contractions,” Morgana had called it. <em>Felt more like millions of tiny toothpick-sized swords. On fire. At once. </em>Macy’s exhaustion level had reached an all-time high, and even then, she knew it was only going to get worse.</p><p>Fortunately, Harry proved to be a doting husband, frequently providing her foot rubs on demand, berry-flavored sparkling water (<em>she grew tired of ginger-flavored after the 1<sup>st</sup> trimester), </em>and nutritious meals—one veggie side, one carb, one protein—as Morgana recommended. Macy insisted that she was able to look after herself quite well, as she had always done so for as long as she could remember while growing up, but Harry refused to let her traipse about for extended periods of time in the kitchen. Instead, between massages and healthy meals, they spent pockets of time walking about the sandy Azorian beach at sunset, thinking of names for their future daughter, heretofore nicknamed <em>Baby M.</em></p><p><em>For it was to be a girl. </em>This much was certain, confirmed by a high-resolution ultrasound at the four-month mark. So far, Harry and Macy each had narrowed their list of “M”-letter names to their top three but had not at that moment decided to tell anyone quite yet. Macy had read plenty online of how well-meaning family members tried to dissuade use of a name before the child was even born, creating ample amounts of stress for the expectant parents.</p><p>Macy and Harry were now reclining on their sofa in the living room of their condo to watch a movie about a woman who lives forever and remains forever ageless. About twenty minutes into the start of the film, Harry, as if reading Macy’s mind, held her hand, stating that they needn’t worry about such things. Both he and she, as they were of magical blood, would continue to age slower than the average human being, much like Matias and Morgana, both of whom were in their eighties but were as fit as a fiddle.</p><p>Matias and Morgana had come over for dinner the other night, and Harry and Macy watched them interact as though they were slowly but surely becoming a couple once more, even though both denied it, no matter how one framed the question—but Macy knew the looks that passed between Matias and Morgana, and they contained, more likely than not, vestiges of their decades-ago romance. Macy realized that her pregnancy provided an excellent excuse for Matias and Morgana to visit each other, and Harry and Macy more frequently, and there was a sociologically fascinating switching of roles all were privy to in the process. Though Darcy had been Matias’ mother and Jimmy had cared for Matias in the brief time he knew the then-infant, it seemed as though Matias and Morgana had taken on the familial role of the older parents and in-laws, rolled into one. Macy and Harry hadn’t minded, really, since both of their respective parents and grandparents were long since gone; they often used to wonder what would happen if their future child grew up without any of the usual four grandparents, but now, growing accustomed to Matias and Morgana’s visits, Harry and Macy knew they could put their worries at bay.</p><p>
  <em>9 pm, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23</em>
</p><p>After the movie had finished, Macy rose and went to the kitchen to make a jar of guava jam for tomorrow morning. Mel and Maggie were coming over for brunch, and she wanted to make sure she gave them a literal taste of the tropics. Harry had sprang out of his seat on the couch and offered to help, so she gave him detailed instructions to pull out the five extremely ripe guavas from the fridge, 2 limes for juicing, 1 cup of sugar, and the requisite 2 tablespoons of pectin (per 2 cups of fruit). He did so, mashing the flamingo-pink hued fruit into a soft peak in a stovetop pot, as Macy sliced and juiced the limes, mixing the resulting liquid in the soft guava. Then, Harry added the sugar and pectin, stirring throughout, as Macy turned the stove on high for the guava concoction to reach a boiling temperature, which took several minutes. Afterward, this was carefully poured into a heat-resistant glass jar, sealed, and labelled “guava jam” with the corresponding date. Macy did make a point of taste-testing the jam, spreading it on a thin wafer cracker; she had been craving guavas lately, after all. She gave Harry a bite, to which he responded that it “tasted absolutely <em>divine,</em>” while hugging her from behind as he tenderly stroked her prominent belly.</p><p>
  <em>10 am, Next Day, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23</em>
</p><p>After brunch, which both Mel and Maggie enjoyed, they told Macy to close her eyes and led her to the bedroom. “Open your eyes,” they, along with Harry, said together.</p><p>She did and found herself looking at a newly-installed crib (the expensive type that would grow with one’s baby as they became a toddler, small child, and so on). There were small, artistic prints that Mel and Maggie had put together as well, that were quite tasteful and chic. A small bookcase was there as well, which had the beginnings of a miniature children’s library; Macy stepped toward it, recognizing many of the classic tales her father had read her during her early childhood. She turned around, moved several paces, and engulfed Mel, Maggie, and Harry in an extremely tight hug. <em>“Thanks so much, you guys, I love it, and I know” </em>Macy looked up at Harry, starting to choke up, “that our baby will love it too. She’s so lucky to have you two as future aunts.”</p><p>“Know that we love you, Macy,” said Maggie, “and don’t you <em>ever </em>forget that.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0053"><h2>53. HM2V: Tell Her a Story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>53: HM2V: Tell Her a Story</p><p>
  <em>7 pm, 6 months later, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23</em>
</p><p>Macy heard a thin cry coming from the master bedroom and went to investigate. <em>Maya. Their daughter. </em>It felt so strange and wonderful to finally be able to utter those words. “Feeding time,” she murmured to no one, as she undid her blouse and fed the newborn, who suckled hungrily for several long minutes, before gently detaching, with a tiny, kitten-like yawn that tugged at her very heartstrings. Macy held Maya slowly over her shoulder to burp her, which she did once, then twice. She felt her baby’s fingers close around her own larger finger and uttered a sigh of contentment, as the hour slowly ticked by.</p><p>Just then, Macy felt an odd prickle at the base of her neck, and sensed that she was not entirely alone in the room with her baby. She looked up; Harry stood in the doorway smiling at this tranquil nighttime image of his wife and new daughter, as the tropical wind gently whistled through the window a foot away. They could smell the plumerias and hibiscus that Matias was growing in his back patio, himself believing that a newly-birthed child should be exposed to nature’s lush beauty from the moment the baby arrived home.</p><p>It was just one week since Maya’s birth, and Macy still had momentary flashbacks of the agony she endured; her childbirth by epidural was prolonged due to it being her first pregnancy. <em>The contractions had rolled across her like choppy yet razor-sharp waves hitting a sea voyaging ship tenuously trying to avoid shipwreck at all costs.</em> She remembered gasping, crying, <em>screaming </em>through the pain, gritting her teeth so hard that her jaw ached for days afterward. Throughout it all, she recalled being more worried for Harry, who had an agonized look of horror on his face of all that Macy had to endure, issuing their baby into the world. <em>Maya Madalena Valensi.</em></p><p>Harry quietly took Maya into his arms. “Shall we read you a story?” he asked, all the while looking at the epitome of strength and beauty that was his wife Macy, in wonderment that she and their daughter both had come through the ordeal alive and in one piece.</p><p>“I have a better idea,” replied Macy. To Harry’s querying face, she said, “I would like to tell her the story of Denis and Terezinha, her Azorian patriarch and matriarch.”</p><p>“Excellent idea,” said Harry, kissing Macy. “We’re all ears.”</p><p>
  <em>Flashback, Storytime, Macy, age 7, and Dexter</em>
</p><p>“Can you tell me the story of Denis and Terezinha again, dad? <em>Please?</em>” asked a small girl with corkscrew curls of gold, bronze and ember.</p><p>“Oh, <em>Macy,</em>” replied Dexter gruffly. “Haven’t I told you the story a million times?”</p><p>“I want to remember the tale. For <em>posterity</em>,” Macy stuck her chin out boldly.</p><p>“I see we’ve been working on our literary vocabulary?”</p><p>“100% on the last test Daddy, look!” Macy pointed to the piece of paper on her desk, feet away.</p><p>“Very good, Macy. It’s always important to do your best so you can get into the top colleges and have all the doors of opportunity open to you.”</p><p>“I get it, Daddy, I know.”</p><p>“You know, there’s also that story of Darcy, Dora, and Della. What would you do if you had a little sister?” Dexter asked, out of the blue.</p><p>“Daddy, don’t be silly—I don’t <em>have </em>sisters!” giggled Macy, her curls aflutter.</p><p>“But—” and here, Dexter paused. “Imagine, for a moment, that you did.” He peered down at Macy to speak to her in a more serious-minded tone of voice. “How would you react?”</p><p>Macy tilted her head thoughtfully. “At first, Daddy, I would be worried, because I wouldn’t be the only kid, and I’d have to share you.” She paused, as if to mull this over. “But—I think—I think I’d be really, really, <em>really </em>happy. It would be like having a friend for life, right Daddy?”</p><p>“Yes, Macy,” Dexter blinked hard, as if to wipe away tears, though Macy for the life of her couldn’t imagine why a story about ancestors would put him in such a state. “Having a sister is like having a friend for life.”</p><p>
  <em>Epilogue</em>
</p><p>Maggie was in the Vera Manor garden, it was a lovely summertime afternoon, and the glass tealights were sparkling in the shimmering sunlight. She realized she was holding the hand of a little girl whose tiny, caramel-colored corkscrew curls encircled her visage like a miniature halo. <em>It was, of course, her niece Maya Madalena Valensi.</em> This entrancing child, part Whitelighter, had made herself known from the very beginning—<em>before she had even been conceived</em>. Maggie recalled the night that Harry had requested removal of his feelings, and Maggie, aware of his future little girl knew, as a Charmed One, that to acquiesce to his demand would have been impossible. Maggie also had enough sense not to tell him just exactly what it was that she saw, for fear of inadvertently disrupting the world order, vis-à-vis the butterfly effect. <em>But there was no need to worry now</em>. Maya had been born alive and safe, into an unconventional yet altogether compassionate family and was utterly surrounded by the love of everyone in it, young and old alike.</p><p>In particular, Maggie had made it her mission as an aunt to spoil Macy and Harry’s daughter to bits, always doting on her, planting kisses on her cheeks, and giving her new bilingual picture books to read whenever she had the opportunity. <em>Someday, </em>she thought to herself, <em>maybe years down the road, she and Jordan would have a child of their own too. </em></p><p>Maggie took a closer look at this toddler child that Maya had become; Maya was dressed to the nines in an English blue floral cotton dress that Harry had specially ordered from London weeks in advance. Maya also wore a matching printed bow that had somehow slipped further down in her hair. Like her mother Macy, she was always exploring, crawling, taking hesitant steps, then toddling around excitedly and ever-curious, whether it was in the kitchen with Macy and Harry as they made guava jam together, or in the garden with Mel as she read ancient texts. Maya had inherited Macy’s lovely hair and mischievous personality, along with Harry’s sympathetic eyes and complexion. She was quite a perfect mix of her favorite people in the world (<em>besides Mel, of course</em>).</p><p>Maggie heard peals of laughter, and followed the voices to a fancy table, where she saw gaily-wrapped birthday presents, a large “1<sup>st</sup> birthday” banner, and the familiar faces of Mel, Matias, Morgana, and a positively glowing Harry and Macy.</p><p>This was, she knew, a most happily-ever-after—<em>or something like it</em>.</p><p> </p><p>---THE END--</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading, folks!<br/>Three things:<br/>1. The sequel is now complete: "Of Ginger &amp; Spice"<br/>2. I've entered this novel into the Watty2020 competition, Fanfiction category...fingers crossed!<br/>3. Feel free to find me on Twitter &amp; Reddit (same username).</p><p>"Change the world by being yourself."<br/>-Amy Poehler</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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